


The Waking of the Red King

by rusting_roses



Series: Red King Trilogy [1]
Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Ensemble Cast, M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension, mentions of torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-24
Updated: 2012-04-05
Packaged: 2017-10-30 01:24:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 118,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/326204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rusting_roses/pseuds/rusting_roses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Charles' heavy injuries on the Cuban beach conspire to leave him in a coma and living in fantasy of his own making, Erik, the man who once threatened to divide the mutant cause, finds himself desperately trying to hold everything together. First of the Red King trilogy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Ships and Sand

_"He's dreaming now," said Tweedledee: "and what do you think he's dreaming about?"_

_Alice said "Nobody can guess that."_

_"Why, about you!" Tweedledee exclaimed, clapping his hands triumphantly. "And if he left off dreaming about you, where do you suppose you'd be?"_

_"Where I am now, of course," said Alice._

_"Not_ you _!" Tweedledee retorted contemptuously. "You'd be nowhere. Why, you're only a sort of thing in his dream!"_

_"If that there King was to wake," added Tweedledum, "you'd go out – bang! – just like a candle!"_

_"I shouldn't!" Alice exclaimed indignantly. "Besides, if_ I'm _only a sort of thing in his dream, what are_ you _, I should like to know?"_

_Through the Looking-Glass and What Alice Found There_

_Lewis Carroll_

_Modeh ani lifanekha melekh hai v'kayam shehehezarta bi nishmahti b'hemlah, rabah emunatekha._

_I offer thanks before you, living and eternal King, for You have mercifully restored my soul within me; Your faithfulness is great._

_Modeh Ani, a Jewish prayer recited daily upon waking, while still in bed_

~*~

Charles met Shaw's fire with ice.

Blue hot and crackling with power, a sheet of flame blazed at the border of Shaw's mind to keep intruders out; a surprising natural defense, Shaw's powers coming up to protect him from telepaths the only way he knew how, attempting to keep them from causing him harm. It was a good protection, fierce and unrelenting, and had snapped into place the moment Erik had taken the helmet that had so utterly hidden Shaw's mind. The movement obviously well-practiced, probably due to the presence of Shaw's own telepath; Shaw wouldn't have wanted his plans taken from him even by his own ally, the wintry Emma Frost. The protection was successful in blocking Charles' entrance before the telepath even knew that Shaw was vulnerable.

None of that stopped Charles from ripping through it.

After all, Charles of all people knew how the mind could be used as a weapon.

His mind, already cast out and questing for Shaw's, heard Erik's roared, " _Now, Charles!_ " and dove for the burning mind before it could disappear again. Shaw's thoughts were unmistakable beneath the flames, all nuclear sludge and poisonous radiation, thick on the back of Charles' throat like an ember threatening to eat him from the inside out. It was a strong mind, forged with the energy released when atoms split, and it refused to waver even now when he was at Erik's mercy. Charles' body shuddered imperceptibly, lips parting slightly in a little gasp as he prepared to invade Shaw's body and turn it into his own, hoping he wouldn't have to sink into Shaw's mire for long, unwilling to touch those dangerous thoughts and emotions for more than necessary.

He brought up the essence of ice, of that searing, bone-deep cold, and wrapped it around himself like a cloak, protecting his mind from the dangerous heat that was intended block him like Frost's diamond form. He careened into that fire, still sheltered in the deep chill of winter, and turned Shaw's carefully wrought mental barrier to steam.

The air blew outwards like an explosion, scalding heat billowing forward as Charles flew through it and barreled into Shaw's mind, making the other man recoil from the backlash. No matter how much his own natural defenses protected him, Shaw was no telepath and was unprepared for the force with which Charles quenched the fire and spread out his presence within the confines of Shaw's skull.

Once inside, Charles immediately located the centers of the brain that controlled motor function with the ease of long practice and seized them with iron fingers; he almost jerked back out of reflex when his mind sank into Shaw's, the darkness of Shaw's intentions reaching up to cling to Charles, to drag him into the greedy, choking muck. He gripped Shaw's movements, voluntary and involuntary, all the harder, freezing him with enough force that Shaw couldn't even manage a breath on his own, flexing with Shaw's mind to prevent escape.

 _If I am to fall, you're coming with me_. Shaw's mind used the words as a blast of pure energy, his own mutant powers coming to his defense again in a way that none of them could have possibly foreseen, battering at Charles' grip. Charles flinched back instinctively, trying to defend himself from the scorching attack without giving Shaw an inch with which to maneuver.

"Are you okay?" Moira asked, stumbling somewhere behind him.

Charles jerked, mind divided between keeping Shaw from moving, deflecting his mental attacks and paying attention to what Moira was saying. "Moira, be quiet, I can only control this man for so long," he ground out. Even that was almost too much, Shaw redoubling his effort to undermine Charles' grip and throw him out of his mind. Charles started shaking slightly, fighting back, sweat prickling at his temples as his breath came faster.

Shaw scrabbled for a hold on Charles, tendrils of thought twining around him, creeping insidiously inside Charles' own and trying to snatch away his control. Shaw threw images of his own past, of his plans, of anything that might possibly shake Charles' foundations; Charles couldn't afford to be distracted for a single moment, and Shaw would need only that instant that to allow himself to slip free of Charles' grasp.

Charles knew it was risky, but he needed to sink deeper, needed to try and take hold of Shaw's entire mind, if he could. He latched on to every part of Shaw he could find, stomach roiling as he learned more about the man's methods, his desires and his hopes than Charles could have ever wanted. He wished he could tear his mind from Shaw's but knew he couldn't afford to do so, not unless he wanted to give him free reign to attack Erik at will once more.

Shaw threw glimpses of what he'd done to Erik at Charles, turned them into daggers sharpened by the man's own pleasure at what he'd done to the innocent child, how he'd crafted Erik into an elegant weapon to be used against the human scourge. Charles cried out in his mind, high and pained and instinctual, trying to guard himself from it. It was one thing to see fragments of those times when Erik had permitted Charles to touch his mind. It was another thing entirely to live through them as though he were Shaw inflicting these things on Erik.

He was completely unprepared for the crashing, all-consuming guilt and desire and sorrow and fear and fury and pain and the thousand other tangled, strained emotions that slammed into him, all with the distinct acrid flavor of heated steel rolling against his mind.

Erik. It was Erik.

Charles' mind reached out instinctively to his friend, the fleeting impression of that infernal helmet in Erik's hands flashing into his mind as Erik murmured, "Sorry, Charles." His mental and physical voices were flat and low.

Charles gasped, frantic, fighting to free enough of himself from Shaw's clinging, desperately clawing mind to speak to Erik. His heart was in his throat, or maybe it was Shaw's heart, or maybe it was something else entirely. Charles didn't know, didn't care, could barely think beyond the panic that was rising. He could stop this, would stop this, _had_ to stop this— _Erik, please! Be the better man! You have—_

"It's not that I don't trust you."

Charles didn't need to read minds to hear the unspoken, _But—_

The words cut sharper than anything, drove in past his ribs to his heart and left him bleeding and broken and utterly vanquished as he gasped out, desperate, _There will be no turning back!_ There had to be some way that he could make Erik understand, make him see that he could never win like this. He could feel the connection between them dwindling as Erik raised that damned, infernal helmet and then—it was sliced neatly, never there at all, never more than a memory that seemed more wishful thinking than reality.

Now there was only a void, a space empty in a way that Charles couldn't begin to explain. It was a gaping maw, hungry in a way that couldn't be filled, and he reached out, grasping, trying to find that sense of Erik in his mind. Erik, with his carefully structured and compartmentalized mind, all blue steel lines and titanium reinforcement that were unable to hide the softer emotions, the brilliant bright sparks of memory and passion and unadulterated desire for more than just Shaw's destruction.

"No," he managed through gritted teeth, still fighting to keep Shaw's body quiescent. He slammed his hand against the bulk of the downed plane as though the physical pain would focus him, would allow him to find away to pull his friend back to him. "Don't _do_ this, Erik!" he sounded more pained than he should, but the betrayal seared against his skin and left smoking wounds.

Shaw sensed Charles' weakness, and struck.

Distracted, Charles had to turn completely inwards, fending off the thoughts that Shaw set against his skin like explosions, so fierce he could practically smell the cordite. Shaw's murderous desire to quash the weapon that had turned against him so happily thundered in his veins until Charles couldn't tell where Shaw ended and he began. The intense pressure of his mind, scrambling to free itself, knowing that Erik would kill him—

And Erik _would_ kill him, that much was plain. The words that Erik was speaking filtered through only vaguely into Charles' mind, entangled as he was with keeping Shaw from regaining control, but Charles didn't need to feel Erik's mind or see him to understand the terrible, crystalline clarity that now filled Erik's voice as he spoke about the death of the human race. Charles couldn't help seeing him with Shaw's eyes, _through_ Shaw's eyes, mouth tight, face pale and wan, eyes shadowed by more than just the helmet. Charles' breath caught in something very much like a sob.

Shaw fought the telepath's grasp, now little more a wild thing merely struggling to survive, caught between the jaws of predators it should never have dared to challenge. Charles repulsed Shaw's efforts, holding him frozen and trapped and letting him gaze at his fate without mercy.

 _Fine, then_ , Shaw gasped, spiteful and loathing and victorious until the last, _come with me_.

Shaw's mind enveloped him.

His thoughts burrowed into Charles' own detached consciousness, driving through them like a spear, cracking Charles' already raw wounds open and pouring in salt. _Feel it,_ Shaw hissed, and plastered the image of what he was seeing over every corner of his mind—Erik, armed with the very coin Shaw had once ordered him to move, eyes chips of blue ice as he stared at Shaw, loathing in every line of his body.

Charles recoiled from Erik directing such a look at him, but Shaw was already there, pulling him back in, refusing to go into the darkness alone. _I will kill him_ , Shaw swore. _If you leave, you will have murdered him_. Charles didn't doubt Shaw for a second and his body started shaking while his mind began crushing Shaw's with a ferocity he'd never dreamed he could manage, trying to save Erik from Shaw, from Charles, from himself.

 _You will not touch him!_ Charles howled back, and he could feel Shaw's empty grin pressed against every inch of his skin.

_I won't have to._

"This is what we're going to do," Erik said calmly.

"No," Charles protested, the words stuck coming out of his own flesh because Erik was in another world, and he could no longer reach him. "Please, Erik, _no_." His mind couldn't even recognize the sound of his own voice, choked with pain and anxiety, ensconced as he was in Shaw's mind. This would only end in sadness and tragedy for Erik, and how could he not _see_ , brilliant and beautiful as he was, that if he killed Shaw, the man's last act would be to ensnare Erik complete and make him Shaw's own in every way that mattered.

"I'm going to count to three, and I'm going to move the coin."

Charles remained embroiled in Shaw's mind, keeping him locked inside his own skin even now. Shaw's murderous intent was there, was aching for release, but Charles knew he could bear it; in the mental playing field, he far out classed Shaw no matter what tricks the man had up his sleeve. If things got physical, however, Erik wouldn't stand a chance. Shaw's power would blow him apart before Erik realized there was something to defend against. He could do this—would do this, _had_ to do this—for Erik.

"Please, Erik," he begged again, and he didn't know whether he spoke or thought the words. They were a fool's hope, either way, because Erik saw nothing but a coin already coated in the blood of thousands.

What was one more?

The coin entered his brain.

There was pain.

Charles could not give descriptions, could not make comparisons. There was nothing academic or reasonable or even sane about this, about the blue steel of Erik's gaze and Charles' shivering control over Shaw's mind, and Shaw himself twisting into the deepest, filthiest, most vile corners of his mind to avoid it all. The three of them were interlocked and intertwined and united in this pain. Charles could not move, could not breath, and could not even _think_ , not with the pain of steel slicing with agonizing slowness through flesh and bone. It was all-consuming and frightening as all rationality was stolen from him, the words and fine threads of meaning that made him shattering and crashing down around him.

Then—absolution of a kind, as the coin passed into Shaw's brain. For a heartbeat, he could bear to be himself again, could bear to pull himself together, tattered and wounded and falling to pieces, could do more than just survive Erik's implacable and impenetrable will. He didn't for a moment think that Erik had stopped, though. After all, the brain had no pain receptors, as Charles well knew, and that bright edge of clarity, added to the craze of Erik's eyes which are even now boring into his—no, Shaw's—own, made his heart stop.

Then Shaw started dying.

He resisted. Tried to, at least.

Still, there really wasn't much that anyone could do when their brain was being very neatly and very precisely sliced apart.

Shaw clung to Charles, this time not with the intention of dragging him down into the depths of his own mind, but with the hope that Charles would lift him away, away from this unnamable and inescapable agony. Shaw was afraid, trying vainly to bring his power to bear, unable to understand why the ability that had safeguarded him from far more formidable threats than this, had defended him against guns and knives and nuclear explosions, had deserted him in his greatest hour of need. Charles screamed with him, or perhaps had already been screaming. He couldn't tell, and didn't care.

He still kept Shaw's power locked away from him.

Even knowing that, even knowing what Charles was doing to him, the need to not be alone as he died kept Shaw huddled against him, as though he were a small child afraid of the monster in the closet, and Charles could save him from the world. Charles wanted to cast Shaw aside, let him suffer as he should for the way he'd fostered hate in the world, for the way he'd taken Angel and Darwin from them, for the way he had _dared_ to touch Erik, but Charles knew the only difference between him and Shaw was mercy and rules.

Charles didn't take away his pain or help him. He was only human.

He didn't leave, though.

Shaw died without ceremony.

Charles looked at Erik, reaching out into the void, the empty presence that felt like the dead to him and asked, _Why did you killed me?_

Charles snapped back into his own skin, collapsing to the ground and retching as his mind tried to acclimate what it had seen and felt. Nothing made sense; his thoughts still tangled up in Shaw's, Erik's blue eyes glimmering at him with uncaring hatred every time he shut his eyes. He couldn't tell where the tang of silver in his mouth had come from, but he retched again, trying to rid himself of it. Coughing, he tried to brace himself against the metal hull, which seemed to shiver alarmingly under his fingers.

In desperation, he took everything of Shaw's last minutes and shoved it into a back corner of his mind, sealing it over with layer after layer of clear, smooth diamond, forged titanium, and sheer unadulterated willpower. It felt like Shaw's power had left scorch marks on the inside of Charles' unprotected skull, and he had no idea what to do, what had happened. Charles had no way to deal with the searing agony, which not even the protection he'd raised would be able to stave off forever. He would pay for this later, pay tenfold for letting it wreak havoc in even that small corner of his mind, but he didn't have the time to spare to deal with the trauma properly. Not now.

 _Perhaps_ , whispered a dangerous voice in his mind, _not ever_.

Moira's hands were gentle on his back as she helped him up, and he tried to be equally gentle as he told her, "Not now. Please," and lifted her hands away from his skin. She blushed a little, raising her hands to show they were out of his way. He smiled thinly, trying for reassurance, and the look on her face told him that he had failed unequivocally, but she said nothing as he led her out to where the screeching of metal sounded like a death knell. Stumbling, feeling half-blind and disoriented from the headache that pounded at his temples, Charles left the eviscerated belly of the plane.

The sight of Shaw, suspended in the air as though crucified, blood trickling down his face, was not nearly as frightful as seeing Erik. Charles automatically cast his mind out, damaged though it was, straining and scrabbling to grab purchase on that featureless, soulless mar against his senses. Even knowing he wouldn't be able to touch Erik now didn't stop him from trying.

The mutants gathered slowly around Shaw's floating body, expressions containing varying levels of confusion, ambivalence, or simple wariness as they prepared to fight or flee as their natures dictated. Shaw had seemed invincible and unstoppable, but Erik cast a cool, almost dispassionate eye over the empty shell while he spoke, as though Shaw's remains were of less than no consequence. As though Erik hadn't spent nearly the entirety of his life attempting to hunt and kill the man who had helped destroy his people and his family, murdering Erik's mother before his eyes in cold blood. Charles' breath came hard and fast, mute in the face of Shaw's cooling corpse.

"Take of your blinders, brothers and sisters. The real enemy is out there!" Erik's voice was strident and unrelenting. He pointed for effect, gazing out at those ships with the sort of disgust normally reserved for the arachnid family. Something akin to a hysterical laugh bubbled up in Charles' through for a second before he quashed it. "I feel their guns moving in the water. Their metal, targeting _us_. Americans. Soviets. _Humans_." He spat the last word out. "United in their fear of the unknown. The Neanderthal is running scared, my fellow mutants!" There—that casual slur, 'Neanderthals' thrown out like he wasn't condemning an entire race to death.

A race to which, for better or worse, they still belonged to.

Charles cut across the sand with Erik, making their way to where the waves lapped gently on the beach, the greater swatch of nature undisturbed by the small creatures mucking about on its land and water. No matter how this day turned out, the sand and sea and sky would remain largely undisturbed. Charles abruptly felt very dwarfed, very insignificant, and totally and completely alone.

"Go ahead, Charles. Tell me I'm wrong." A furious challenge, something that even hours ago would have held a tone of light, friendly mockery, or at the very least cool neutrality. Charles stared out at those distant grey hulking masses. It was hard to tell—nearly impossible, really, in the harsh glare of the sun—which ship belonged to whom.

As Charles slowly raised his fingers to his temple and completely dropped his mental wards completely for the first time in years, he knew it didn't matter anyways.

Erik was right.

There was fear, a dark miasma blazing in the minds of those who had ordered the mutants' destruction, as much for what the men and women on the ships had seen those on the beach do as for what they imagined they could do. The fear ran as an undercurrent to their every thought, their every action, commanding them to destroy the things on the shore before they came to harm those who were out at sea defending their nations. That urge was particularly strong in the commanding officers, minds in a panicked uproar over that they'd seen the creatures capable of. It was an all-consuming fear that got under Charles' skin and made him shudder, trying to pull away from that sour, bitter tang that coated his tongue and shrieked in his ears. He stared out at them without seeing them, disappointment raging.

He'd always believed in the essential good of man. After all, it had been one of those fellow mutants that Erik was so hell-bent to protect that had been the source of Erik's nightmares for years; humans were no more inclined to evil than mutants were. No single human, mutant or not, could be held responsible for an entire conflict—after all, there had been those in Germany who had rejected the rule of Hitler and aided as many as they could, just as there had been traitors in the Allies' midst. Imperfect as people could be, they still had so much _possibility_ in them.

Charles had genuinely thought that would be enough.

They had saved the world. They'd stopped nuclear war, stopped Shaw, and had brought, if not peace, then at least the return of the détente that had existed for the last decade between the US and the USSR. They'd saved an untold millions of lives, saved the human race to devolving into mere killing machines and stepping stones to the greater, mutant evolution.

And still they were loathed.

Fury rose in Charles, all the more powerful for its rarity and all the more eager to be released. The tens of kilometers between them and the ships posed no threat at all, not with powers of his magnitude. So many of their minds were weak in comparison to Shaw's or even Moira or Erik's, unprotected and unprepared and laid bare for him to steal their innermost secrets. He could do it if he wanted to, simply command their hearts to stop beating or their lungs to stop taking in air. He could kill them all, if he wanted to.

If he wanted to.

If he wanted to, he could do all manner of things in the point between rage and serenity. He'd tried never to lie to himself, at any rate, about the depths of his power and the way he could use it if he chose to, and he knew it was within the potential of his telepathy to crush these men who threatened his family, the ones he'd come to love so dearly. All men had rules they would and would not break, and Charles' heart hammered when he found himself staring at one of his own, the proverbial line in the sand drawn all too clearly.

Charles hovered above those acrid minds for a breath's time, gauging their fear and their intentions and—and the light blindsided him.

Curiosity. Wonder. Hope. There was one soul, at least, who, while wary of what Charles' enemies and allies had been capable of doing, was also in absolute awe and shock over what he'd seen. Even now, Seth Coyle was staring out onto that beach, thankfulness over what had just been averted by these strange new people sinking deep into his bones. The gentle happiness washed over Charles, and now that he was looking for it, he saw it in several other minds. Only a few, true, but those few were not entirely willing to murder based on what the people on the shore might one day do. They only knew that, somehow, those standing on the shore had saved them all with their unique talents. Charles almost smiled, but couldn't quite, not when he knew absolutely that they would still do their duty by their country in this uncertain situation. However, it wasn't their instinct or their desire any more than it was Charles' to cause them harm without due cause, and with the fear still cloying his senses, it was an unexpected cool breeze that swept the worst of the fear's stench away.

He reached out again, reached out further, this time touching on every mind available to him and his eyes widened briefly. For every one person who had seen the mutant's capabilities, ten more had heard only vague stories of what was going on above decks, occupied as they were in their own tasks. They were simply doing as they were instructed, trusting, as all military men and women must in a battle situation, that their superiors knew what they were doing.

Four thousand, one hundred and twenty nine people. There was Gareth McKellen, thirty two years old, an engineer who had spent the last ten hours buried in the bowels of the ship he worked on, tinkering with one of the support beams' welding to make sure it was going to hold under the ensuing battle. He knew nothing of what was going on above, only that he'd been kept on shift for an extra two hours already, and he wanted to finish his letter to his daughter. There was Gabe Newman, nineteen, always so bright for his age and anxious even as he continued to work on the ship's navigation back to the docking point in Florida. He hadn't wanted to join the navy, precisely, except they'd agreed to pay for part of his college and there was no way he'd have been able to go on his own.

Jared Salinger beat his wife. Kyle Matthews had a twin brother. Derek Buckner had cheated on his final exam to graduate from the naval academy. Elizabeth Foreman hated blood despite being a nurse. Geoffrey Huber loved peaches. Noel Whitley was debating growing a beard. Anne Valencia had a female lover in New York. Craig Hewitt didn't want to see his in-laws.

On and on the flood of information came, as Charles darted amongst the minds of the people on the ships. It was a deluge of feelings and desires and needs and thoughts and Charles sank himself into a thousand lives and more, living out a tiny piece of them as though they were his own. They left imprints on his minds, ghostly might-have-beens of memory that clung to him and compounded the throbbing headache that battered at his temples. He neither stopped nor slowed, touching as many minds as he thought he could handle and then pushing for more, seeing the hopes and fears and needs and angers of countless men and women, most of whom were uninformed by necessity.

Charles found the line in the sand and could not cross it.

Erik was right—fear ruled the minds of most of those on the ships who had seen what the mutants were capable of. He was right, too, in that every available weapon on each ship was now pointed in their direction, ready to fire at a moment's notice. Even those few in whom Charles had seen the curiosity, the wonder, the thankfulness, were unwilling to disobey a direct order without knowing more, and Charles couldn't entirely find it in him to fault them for it. He'd seen battle now, seen how one needed to trust that those leading knew what they were doing, as Moira, Alex, Sean, Hank and Raven had trusted him and Erik.

However, Charles could not sanction, could never sanction what he knew Erik must be thinking—that they all deserved death. Not when he knew that most of the men and women barely knew what was happening on deck, embroiled as they were in the everyday tasks that allowed the ship to function. Not when there were those beacons of interest and awe shining so brightly that could be fostered into something more than this blind prejudice and hatred if they were given the chance. Not when so many weren't even aware that such mutations existed.

So long as there was a single innocent on those ships, Charles would not permit them to be annihilated.

It was agonizing, to have to steel himself against the outpouring of fear and hatred. He'd really and truly hoped that their actions this day would cement their role as helpful and powerful allies to the government and prove to them that they wanted the same thing—safety and equality for the people who looked to them for help. Yet the orders the captains of the ships had been given were frigid: To destroy all living creatures on the beach. Creatures, as though they were something less than human. A part of him wanted to give into his rage and disappointment, to let it consume him as it so clearly had Erik—but that way led madness for someone of his skills. Instead, he focused on those small points of light, all the brighter for the darkness surrounding them, and steeled himself.

He let his hand drop, swallowing reflexively. No matter how the men and women aboard ship felt, they would not countermand direct orders, and that would kill the mutants as effectively as if every single one of them believed in what they were doing. He clung, desperately, to the hope that they could stop this; he nodded to Moira, throwing out empty prayers to any deity that might be listening that they'd see reason, that they'd hear Moira and remember, if nothing else, that one of their own was involved.

As she ran into the downed plane, Charles' own terror, hope, fury, pain, desire and weariness swamped him, knotting in his chest along with other, more complex things he couldn't name. He stretched out gentle fingers, riding along the edges of Moira's mind as she pleaded for someone to answer her.

"Hello? _Hello?_ "

Nothing.

No response.

Charles couldn't conceive which was worse—that they'd been sent on this mission and no one was listening, or that they were refusing to answer. Charles had to physically look away even though he couldn't actually see her, the ragged edges of her voice, the betrayal, the bone-deep confusion and hurt of Moira's voice ripping at him. He yanked his mind away before he could sense any more. The dead space where Erik should have been had already left his nerves exposed and bleeding, and he could ill afford more agony.

Instead, he stared out at the blue water, and the steel of the ships, and the glitter of sun on sea without really seeing it. It was warm today, on the cusp of being too much so in their suits, but the fresh breeze from the ocean cooled the sweat from his skin. Another time, another place, and he might have enjoyed coming to a beach like this, all soft sand and clear water. It was quiet here. Well. It had been quiet here, once.

Charles didn't actually hear it when they gave the command to fire. They were too far distant for that. Nevertheless, it resonated in his bones, hundreds of minds snapping into motion.

Charles stood there and watched, empty, as death came for him.

For all of them.

Erik's hand snapped out.

Everything stopped.

Charles couldn't breathe.

Erik turned the missiles.

Charles' heart started breaking.

"Erik, you said it yourself, we're the better men. This is the time to prove it." He'd never been forced to plead for mercy before, not like Erik had, when Shaw's hands were too close and the pain too great and the metal he was supposed to control being used to tear him to shreds. Charles pleaded now, though, and found that he pleaded not for the men and women out there who could be so much more, though he wanted to save them. He wasn't doing this for them.

He pled for the monster Erik was becoming.

"There are thousands of men on those ships—good, honest, _innocent_ men!" If he'd been able to, he'd have shown Erik what Charles knew, of the ordinary fears and worries and dreams they had, of how at least some of them really _didn't_ understand what choice they were making, how battle was not the time to decide one didn't trust one's commanders, how they wanted to do something great by helping defend their country, how given the chance Erik and Charles could foster the fragile joy in some of those minds, all of it. He did not wish to excuse the fear or the decision that the commanders had made, for even now it sickened him to his core, the blind hatred that came with the realization that those on the beach had more power than most could even conceive. Nothing could excuse that, could make that disgusted terror rational or acceptable. They'd made their choice and Charles couldn't find it in him to stop Erik for their sake.

He would stop it, however, for those who had not yet given into fear and for the chance that Erik might one day come to understand them. " _They're just following orders_."

"I've been at the mercy of men 'just following orders'." Erik looked at him, frost in his eyes and his voice. He gazed at Charles like he was a stranger and for one stricken moment, Charles was sure that he was. "Never again."

Charles thought, very sorrowfully, and very wearily, _Oh, Erik._

Defeat and guilt settled on him and swamped his senses, nauseating. Charles was the fool Erik had so often told him he was—so arrogant, so blind, so full of his own intelligence and cleverness that he'd doomed Erik in his folly. He'd chosen the worst possible words to say to a man who had watched as his people were massacred as part of a job before the purveyors of that death went home to their families and spoke with smiles on their faces. Erik would be forced to pay the price of Charles' conceit for the remainder of his life. Somewhere in the back of his mind, the ghostly remnants of Shaw's thoughts which had become entangled with his laughed at him even as the imprint of the man's essence continued to fade. Charles' heart felt empty and he wished desperately that he could take the words back, that he could fix this all.

He could not allow Erik to compound Charles' own error, however, could not allow Erik to pay the price and start a war. "Erik, release them!" he roared, as though the words alone would make him see reason. Erik never even glanced away from his targets, mouth set in a thin, hard line. Erik couldn't, _wouldn't_ hear Charles, couldn't afford to, not now.

Charles knew what he had to do, even as the thought of it made his stomach roil in protest. Screaming, "No!" as he darted across the sand, he slammed into Erik's waist with his full weight and dragged Erik down to the sand, shattering Erik's hard won control. Missiles exploded in the background as Erik lost their grip on them, but Charles had only one goal: to wrest the infernal device protecting Erik's mind from him, to stop Erik until Charles could apologize, until Erik understood the ramifications of what he was doing. Erik had the potential for so much kindness, and goodness, and gentleness, if only he'd let himself be more than what Shaw had crafted him to be.

They fought, hard, refusing to pull blows even when they drew blood. He couldn't remember if he said anything, though he did recall Erik saying something about not wanting to hurt him. He wanted to say it was a moot point, that between Shaw's death clinging to him like a second skin and the emptiness that bespoke dead bodies where Erik was supposed to be, he wanted nothing more than to weep.

Despite his surprise attack, however, Charles was woefully unprepared, Erik's greater strength, speed, and leverage overwhelming Charles faster than he'd hoped. After all, he only needed a single, brief opening, but Erik had long since learned the art of using desperation to his advantage. He scrabbled for Erik's metal protection against him, scrambled to grab hold of Erik's limbs and keep him from directing the missiles, an affectation that Erik still needed to aid his concentration most of the time. The image of Erik practicing calling metal to him without any accompanying gestures blindsided him, making the world around him go hot and blurry. "Erik, stop!" Charles protested.

Not a breath later, Erik's punch hit home. Dazed, wounded, brain struggling with the fear pouring in from the sea the closer the missiles got, the anger and confusion of Hank, Alex, Sean and Raven and the agony of Shaw's death, Charles found himself staring up at that blue, blue sky as Erik stood up. He tried to order his trembling limbs to move, but they point-blank refused. His throat closed and he struggled to breathe, wishing this was a nightmare he could just wake up from.

Then a gunshot came. And another, and a third.

Moira.

Moira, and Hank and Alex and Sean and Raven, they were all depending on him. A wondrous as their gifts were, he could not force them to choose sides, to attack Erik openly any more than he was willing to force Erik's hand by getting them involved—assuming they chose to stay with Charles at all. After all, he hadn't managed to keep Angel. Either way, with Erik consumed by rage and revenge, it fell to Charles to protect them as best he could, to protect them all and bring them back home safe and sound, scarred perhaps by the war that had started on this shore, but not irreparably damaged. He would survive this, they would all survive this, and they would create a home for themselves, and for others—the sudden dream of it, unfolding properly, had him catching his breath. A place where mutants and humans alike could be as they were and build a life for themselves and their families. It was beautiful, almost too beautiful, and Charles clutched it to himself, tucking it away in a safe corner of his mind.

Now was not the time for dreams, however, and Charles fought to regain his feet, the sharp sound of gunfire barking in his ears. Moira was distracting Erik, at least, since he was too good to let a bullet come near enough to do harm, but until Moira ran out of ammunition, he didn't have the focus to keep the missiles on target and deal with her. She was buying them the time he—

His back exploded into pain, body arching.

His legs gave out beneath him without warning.

His eyes stung from more than just the sand.

His limbs refused to respond.

His mind, taxed far beyond its limits, gave in to the rising darkness.

For a brief, blessed moment, Charles knew no more.


	2. The Sleeping Reflection

_The moment of darkness passed, and Charles came awake to the sensation of intense anguish and the peculiar and unpleasant feeling of something being yanked from his back. He let out a tiny, sharp sound that was breathless from the sheer overwhelming pain. The world spun around him as his body was being shifted by hands not his own until he finally stared blearily up into the sun and Erik's face._

_Even now, he wore the helmet._

_Charles let out a grunt, wordless and broken, everything from the waist up radiating pain that made his body shake, centering in his lower back. He didn't want to think about how numb the bottom of his body was, numb even as the slightest shift of his body had him choking back screams. He wanted to tell Erik to just,_ stop, please, God it hurts it hurts it hurts, please, Erik, please _, but every movement shorted out his brain and he couldn't focus enough to protest the accidental abuse._

_Finally, he was more or less steady against Erik's body, and he had a moment to catch his breath. “I said back off!“ Erik shouted, gaze looking in the direction of their students, their_ friends _with unadulterated fury. The movement rocked Charles slightly, and he let out another tiny, agonized sound._

_“You._ You did this _,“ Erik hissed, hand reaching out. His body remained cradled against Charles' however, supporting the man as best he could with his free hand, titling Charles protectively towards Erik. The lack of movement helped Charles focus, helped him push away the pain until he could at least think clearly._

_Erik—Erik was threatening someone, hurting someone, killing someone. Moira. Charles caught sight of movement out of the corner of his eye; she was trying to gasp for breath, fingers scrabbling at her throat. Erik was doing something to her. It was hurting her, hurting Erik, hurting Charles. The information seemed to come from a long way off, fighting through the fog of grief and pain that swamped him. He tried futilely to anchor himself in Erik, in that vital and brilliant mind, wanting something comfortable and familiar to balance himself against for just a moment to regain his sense of equilibrium even as he recognized that until Erik took off the helmet, he'd never be able to do such a thing again._

_Charles really wanted nothing more than to close his eyes, to drift, to sleep. To simply ignore the damage Shaw's death had done to his mind as much as the bullet had done to his body and hope things magically got better. He wanted to go back to the past week, where even as they trained they were still family to each other, squabbling and arguing and binding themselves to each other all the closer. Charles wanted to leave the responsibility and enormity of what he was about to say to someone else, someone who was a proper leader and adult figure—a real professor. Not someone who was running a sham at pretending to be one, pretending he knew what he was doing, pretending he knew what was best for everyone. Charles hadn't even yet reached twenty six, for all he'd gotten his PhD. It wasn't—it wasn't fair, not now, not after everything, to have to say this, too._

_It was the only way to stop Erik._

_“Please. She didn't do this, Erik. You did.“_

_Erik looked at him with heartbreak and betrayal in his face, and a part of Charles wanted to vindictively celebrate the knowledge that they were now on the same playing field, having irrevocably marked each other, scarred each other. As though they hadn't already done that, months ago when they'd first met, already changing each other from the second Charles had felt Erik's vibrant mind out in the cold sea._

_Erik's voice was rough and caught at odd moments, eyes glittering from more than just the hot sun. Charles couldn't move, every shift of Erik's body against his own agonizing. It hurt—he hurt, a pulsing, steady pain that there was no getting used to. Erik's hand rested against his heart lightly, and Charles wondered whether the other man could feel Charles' heart pumping. “Us turning on each other—it's what they want. I tried to warn you, Charles.“ He gave the telepath a little shake for emphasis, and Charles' world whited out for a beat with the resounding pain, his every thought scrambled by the sheer agony that the motion caused._

_Erik's face was nothing but earnest, though, desperate and begging Charles to reconsider his words. His body was warm and strong where he cradled Charles against him._ He doesn't know, _Charles realized, nauseous._ He doesn't understand how bad it is. That I can't...that I can't. That the bullet hit my spine. That moving me might have made things worse, and that he might have done more harm than good by pulling the bullet out even if the suit kept it from drawing blood. That just because I'm conscious and currently alive isn't a guarantee of anything. _Charles was forced to blink away tears, barely reeling in his mind as it automatically reached out yet again, to try and make Erik see._ Don't make me do this, Erik, God, please. 

_“I want you by my side. We're_ brothers, _you and I. All of us, together. Protecting each other. We want the_ same thing." 

_Charles couldn't help the hysterical chuckle that burbled out. Erik couldn't—wouldn't—see. He just wanted to hate, wanted to hate so much and wanted to be blind and deaf and dumb to the little ways the world just refused to fit into his neat little boxes of us and them. It was easier, to live like that, to wrench what he wanted from the world and leave it gaping and bleeding, rather than compromise and work to make everyone's jagged edges fit together even when it sometimes meant they all scraped each other raw._

_It seemed that this, here, was another line in the sand he couldn't cross. If he wanted to, he could move right now, and knock the helmet off Erik's head. It would cost him immeasurable pain, but he could do it because he wouldn't give his body any other choice. He knew far better than most how the brain could trick itself into or out of almost anything, given the right incentives, and Erik not leaving was one of the best incentives Charles could imagine. He could do it, and take Erik's mind for his own and twist it. He could take those spiraling towers of logic and sharp-edged steel will and shatter it with brute force, melting away the thick girders of rage that had anchored Erik's mind for so long. He could make Erik believe only what Charles himself wanted, could make everyone on this beach and those out on the ships bend to his desire. No one else knew the full extent of his powers, and even Charles knew in his heart of hearts that he was capable of far more than his morals would allow him to even consider._

It is the ability to choose that makes us human, _his father had once said to him when Charles had been young. It was just after the war, the sweltering heat of August making its presence known, and they'd been in his father's study, the man's gentle hand resting on his shoulder. The contact had left Charles reeling, mind's eye filled with mushroom clouds and injured souls and the thick press of victory and death in the back of his throat. That day was so long ago now and it had been almost as long since his father's death. Charles didn't often think of the man anymore, except with soft regret and shadowed love. He'd been so young, then, with hardly more than a handful of memories of the austere, warm man that he cherished and kept close to his heart._ So choose wisely, for we make far better gods and monsters than any of our imagination. 

If I do that, Shaw will not be the only monster on this beach. 

_“I'm sorry, my friend, but we do not.“_

~*~

It was nothing more, really, than a ragged little inhalation. 

Somehow, though, it was louder than MacTaggert's gun, louder than the missiles' resounding explosions, louder than the sea and the terrible, enormous sound of his own thundering heart. The sound sliced through him, neatly severing any control he might have possessed and filling him with a curiously quiet dread. He knew what would find, if he could find the courage to turn around; Charles, bleeding and in pain. Charles, gripping a wound and staring at him in shock. Charles, struggling to breathe. 

Charles, dying. Charles, dead. Charles gazing up at him with accusing, blank eyes that turned icy and distant and foreign as blood seeped into the sand. 

His turn felt almost like it was happening in slow motion, every second stretched thin and delicate and wavering, ready to snap and expose him to the incipient torture. He would go back to Schmidt, withstand his torture a hundred times over if only Charles would be okay. The helmet burned cold, accusing, against his skin. Then— 

Charles, arching. Falling. Agonized. Frightened. 

Looking so young and frail and alone, a dark shape on pale sand. 

_Charles. Not Charles. Anyone but Charles. Please, don't hurt him, not him. Don't touch him like this, please. Please. He doesn't deserve this._

Erik hadn't begged, hadn't pleaded since he had just been left in a monster's care and expected to become one himself. For Charles he would, though, would ask any deity who deigned to listen for Charles' safety. He never remembered going to Charles' side or falling to his knees beside his friend, the rage he'd held onto for what Charles had dared to say about the men on the ships only seconds earlier willfully forgotten in the face of this disaster. The pain of the motion never registered with him, his entire being focused on the telepath stretched out on the sand. He grasped at Charles with greedy fingers, always taking, sliding carefully under the other man's body and lifting him away from the white sand. Charles didn't move, a dead weight in Erik's arms, his breathing and expression tight with pain even in unconsciousness. Erik reached out with his power, to that indefinable sense of metal that constantly tugged at his senses, his only constant companion since he'd gotten out of the distilled hell of the Nazi camps. 

There, imbedded at the small of Charles' back, a piece of deformed steel the size of his thumbnail. So small, even smaller than the coin he'd had as his constant and often only companion for the last eighteen years. He raised it, cradling it in the palm of his hand, studying it with a mix of fascination and horror. The impact against Charles' suit had crushed it, left it deformed. Erik was honestly surprised that it was whole at all, rather than having given way under the immense stress and shredded itself apart. 

He tried to reach out with his power and feel it properly, but he couldn't get more than a sense of steel and heat and a tang of something that might have been pure iron before his tenuous control started to fray. The sense of it lingered in the back of his throat like blood. He swallowed, then swallowed again as his hands started to shake. His second attempt went no better, his powers almost recoiling from the bullet, obeying his unconscious desire to keep himself as far from the object as possible—the bullet that had felled Charles. Erik blinked, coming back to himself, curling his fingers around the remains and hiding them from sight. 

Bullet still clenched in his fist, Erik rested the hand over Charles' heart, other hand cradling the telepath close to his chest. The cold, practical part of him that had allowed him to survive his brushes with death remarked casually that he didn't have time for this, didn't have time for such sentimental nonsense as studying the bullet, not when Charles was injured. For a terrifying moment, Erik couldn't tell whether Charles was actually breathing beneath Erik's own body's trembling. The moment seemed to crystallize until all Erik could see was Charles' wan and bruised face, the closed eyes, the perfectly still body. Charles, who couldn't even stand still with Cerebro on his head and his mind cast out somewhere hundreds of miles away, whose quick fingers were always gesturing, gentle and warm against Erik's arm— 

In fact, the only time Erik could recall him being motionless was while informing him that killing Schmidt wouldn't bring him peace. Even then, the blue of his eyes had flared, scorching hot and dangerous in a way that made Erik understand without a doubt that Charles had lied in saying that one day Erik might have a power not even Charles could match. 

He couldn't let him go. 

"Charles," Erik whispered hoarsely. He clutched at Charles' limp figure frantically. "Charles, please! Charles!" None of his entreaties appeared to even register, and Erik fumbled to pull Charles' body closer to his own, pressed together so tightly that Erik could feel exactly where ribs gave way to the soft curve of Charles' waist. It took Erik three tries to locate where Charles' jugular was, and another set of heart-stopping seconds before he was able to feel Charles' pulse light and rapid against his clammy skin. 

Erik couldn't find words in any of the nine languages he could speak, all coherence stripped from him at the feel of Charles' pulse. He ducked his head and pressed his face against Charles' flight suit, feeling intimately exactly where the all the metal had been sewn; it was still warm from Charles heat. 

He was alive. 

Charles was alive. 

Erik's next breath was perhaps considerably less even than it could have been. Somehow, though, the fact remained that Charles had survived. That knowledge kept the panic that still thrived from taking him over completely. 

Instead, the rage that he'd fostered since his mother had been so dispassionately and carelessly killed, the one he'd finally released to kill Schmidt, returned in full force, spreading down his every nerve. Still refusing to relinquish Charles' unmoving form, Erik raised his head once more, teeth bared. He pinpointed MacTaggert immediately. 

MacTaggert, so sickeningly human, treating them all like something that should or even _could_ be controlled. MacTaggert, who was of less than no help, who couldn't even be trusted with so simple a task as calling off the government watchdogs who had dared to raise their hands against the mutants waiting on the beach—the mutants that they themselves had asked for aid. MacTaggert, who had been so foolish as to raise a gun to someone who knew the working of her weapon far better than she could ever dream. 

MacTaggert, who had fired the bullet that had nearly cost Charles his life. 

For what she'd done, she was going to die. 

He stretched out a hand, greedy fingers searching out every sliver of metal on her person, from buckles to zippers to buttons. The familiar buzz of rage fizzing beneath his skin powered him, drove him, the weight of Charles in his arms inducing more than enough anger to deal with MacTaggert's paltry weapon. It wasn't on her person, but several feet away, lying on the ground and still hot from the shots she'd fired. She must have thrown it away, having seen first-hand the sort of damage Erik could do with a single iota of metal in the vicinity. There was even a single bullet left in the chambers; eerily poetic justice that Erik could appreciate. He snatched it, levitating it in the air and cocking the trigger before aiming it at MacTaggert's prone form. 

Erik's instincts caught up to his fury then, and they screamed something was very, very wrong. MacTaggert wasn't fleeing as he'd expected when Erik had raised the gun, hadn't even moved from her fallen position in the sand, crumpled like a rag doll. Erik knew she wasn't hurt; she hadn't left the plane until Charles had, and all her bullets had been deflected to the side rather than back at her, to Erik's everlasting regret. Yet MacTaggert hadn't even begged for her life when cocked the gun, hadn't thrown out false apologies or bargains to try and protect herself. In fact, as he looked at her with a growing sense of dread, she was shaking slightly on the sand, little aborted movements that made her body convulse. 

The reminder that there were others on the beach came back to him in a rush, and his gaze darted to where Raven, Alex, Sean and Hank were no longer standing, then to where Azazel, Riptide and Angel had fallen as well. Like MacTaggert, they had all dropped to the sand and where in varying positions of pain, almost all of them curled in on themselves as though they were liable to fall to pieces any moment. Azazel, the red demonesque teleporter was twitching all over, and even from this distance Erik could see that Raven's mouth was open in a silent scream. 

_Fuck_ , Erik thought wildly, _is it a secondary mutation, and whose is it, and what is it doing to them and why can't I feel it? Is someone else here? Is this another one of Schmidt's?_ His thoughts piled up on one another as he raced to ten different conclusions at the same time. He reared back in the same moment, the hand that wasn't supporting Charles leaping to his helmet, jostling the injured telepath in the process. 

They all started screaming. 

It was a shrill, instinctual, inhuman sound that simply poured out of their bodies and left them with blank eyes. It was the human subconscious given a voice of terror that made every single damn hair on his body stand on end. Erik's mouth dropped open at the shock of it, unable to help the small gasp that escaped him. He simply stared at them for several precious seconds, aghast and utterly uncomprehending. Hank's bestial roar matched Raven's frantic one as they and the others curled in on themselves. Even through the helmet the sound pressed against his skin, razor sharp. His heart raced, trying to identify a real, tangible threat that he could attack, could see and destroy to save everyone. He almost wished that Schmidt was at the root of it, so he could turn his panic and rage on someone, anyone, but Schmidt still lay on the beach, crumpled and so much smaller than he'd been in Erik's memory. 

All the while, the sound of everyone's pained scream tore at his already strained nerves. 

A voice dropped out of the agonized chorus and Erik clung to Charles as he tried to determine what had happened. It was Raven, struggling to pick up her head, mouth firmly shut even as she emitted little grunts of pain, eyes wild. She opened her mouth, but nothing emerged, and the silence was more unnerving than the screams. Her lips moved; it took Erik a precious pair of seconds to realize Raven was mouthing, "Charles! Charles!" over and over again in an exaggerated fashion. Her eyes were unfocused while her face was terribly pale and ashy beneath the blue of her skin. 

Erik cast his eye down at Charles, flummoxed. The moment he thought about it, though, it seemed obvious. A powerful telepath, in immeasurable pain from being shot in the back, projecting his agony on all wavelengths. Schmidt's helmet, which had protected him from Charles so adroitly, was now on Erik's head, protecting him from the unexpected and unintentional attack. The pieces slid into place smoothly, without fanfare, stealing Erik's breath and leaving him dazed with the implications. 

His choice was clear, though. Without hesitation, Erik yanked the helmet from his head and— 

Pain. More than Erik ever expected. It was a maelstrom of howling betrayal, fear, and a pulsating, mindless, hungry, anguished pain that robbed Erik of all coherent thought. Guilt, its own physical weight, pressed down on Erik's chest until he couldn't manage a full breath. There was no Schmidt, no beach, no Hank or Raven or war—and no Charles. There was only this, this overwhelming agony and terror and shame and _heartbreak_. 

Erik fought it, trying to keep Charles' unadulterated feelings from swamping him and stripping away his sanity, immersed as he was, as they all were, in Charles' pain. In this small thing, this one moment, he was willing to be grateful to Schmidt's brutal training, because it was from him that Erik knew now how to ride the pain, internalize it, let it wash over him and dissipate so that it didn't interrupt his focus but rather became a part of it—Schmidt, after all, had said pain and anger was the key to unlocking his gift and had acted accordingly, even if Charles had helped him make more leaps in a single week that Schmidt had done over months. Still, taking that pain and turning it into a way to focus was more difficult than ever before and he took in a shuddering, shaking breath to steady himself. 

He slammed the helmet over Charles' head. 

The helmet did as it was intended, stopping Charles' projections. It had only been a theory, really, that the helmet could keep such things in as well as out, but Erik practically sagged with relief, the simple absence of pain a drug of its own. Though he was no longer getting Charles' active projections, however, the bitter taste of defeat and rage and sorrow filled his mouth, the emotions clinging to Erik's mind. He was well practiced at pushing such things away, however, and he did so now, caustically shoving them to a far corner of his mind so he would not have to face the knowledge that he was at least partially responsible for the crippling levels of pain that Charles was experiencing, conscious or not. 

In the absence of Charles' psychic projections, an unnerving calm and quiet settled down at the beach, like that after a storm. It was as though everyone was waiting for the next disaster, wondering whether they could really trust that things were finally finished. Erik stared into Charles' lax face, smooth and mostly unlined, looking for all the world like he was sleeping. Erik couldn't help smoothing his fingers over the exposed skin of Charles' neck, lingering over that reassuring pulse. 

Around him, everyone started to stir. Raven was the first to stand. Or rather, she was the first to get up, though she fell to one knee and almost toppled over before more than a second had passed. Hank braced her, though he didn't seem able to get past his knees either. The red teleporter staggered to his feet, along with Alex, who leaned heavily on Sean, both of them facing Schmidt's mutant allies cautiously, trying to shield those who were still down. Angel was holding her head as she plopped down on the sand, injured wings weeping slightly where Alex' energy had ripped them apart, the wind-controller keeping a gentle hand on her waist. 

None of them so much as raised a hand against each other, stuck in a wary détente, all of them looking to Charles and Erik, the de facto leader and Schmidt's killer, for some sort of cue. They got it when MacTaggert groaned softly and tried to rise from her knees, squinting against the bright sun and clearly dazed; Erik cursed himself for ever taking his eyes off of her. It was time for her to be dealt with, before she realized what was going on. 

The metal of MacTaggert's dog tags would do nicely for him. He reached out, gesturing sharply with his fingers, wrapping the chain tightly around MacTaggert's neck. The CIA operative's fingers flew to her throat, trying to get her fingernails under the links in order to pull it away from her skin. She let out what might have been a cry for help, what might have been a plea, what might have been a protest, but the sound was completely choked away. Erik's mouth opened in a silent snarl, teeth bared. 

MacTaggert stared at him, eyes frantic and terrified. Erik just tightened the chain, cutting into her neck cruelly. Her lashes fluttered, her mouth worked again, and then she collapsed onto the sand, hands still tight around her neck as she tried to gain leverage and pull the chain from her neck. 

It was Raven who moved, a furious figure in blue with eyes of molten gold, sliding to a halt in a wave of sand and dropping down on the other side of Charles. "Oh, God," she murmured, ripping off her gloves and dropping them to the sand as she grabbed her brother's hand and brought it to her forehead. Her shoulders shook with what might have been a sob for a tremulous heartbeat before her eyes snapped up to meet Erik. There was something very much like rage in her face, and she growled, "What are you _doing_?" 

"She hurt Charles." The words were ripped out of Erik's mouth, almost inhuman in sound. "She _hurt_ him. She's not _allowed_ to hurt him—no one is." 

Raven matched him glare for glare, practically bristling. "You think I don't know he's hurt? You're wasting our time! We need to get Charles to a hospital _now_! Every second counts, and it's going to take us forever to get back. We need to leave! He needs help, Erik, not, not _this_!" She waved a hand at MacTaggert, who was slowly turning purple. "I don't care what you do afterwards, but now isn't the time! So just _stop_ , Erik, and _help Charles_!" 

Erik stared at for a moment, uncomprehending. "Help him, Erik, please. He's my brother." Raven sounded anguished, and her brilliant gold eyes glimmered bright with tears. 

Erik swallowed, hand dropping away, and released his iron grip on the dog tags around MacTaggert's neck. Raven was right; they needed to get Charles to a hospital as soon as possible. The bullet was still in his fist, burning hot against his skin, and fear rose in his gorge, all the worse because it was for someone else. Erik didn't know how to deal with this crippling anxiety, the worry that he might lose Charles. He'd done his best not to form attachments for this very reason; he couldn't afford to be distracted at a crucial moment by any sort of relationship. 

Charles had managed to forge one between them all the same. 

He took a deep breath, then carefully shifted Charles towards Raven, watching the telepath's face like a hawk to try and spot any shift in those lax features, any sign that Charles might be in pain or might be waking up. "Take him, please," he said, eyes serious. "If anything changes, tell me right away." Raven nodded, and then slipped her arms gently under her brother, carrying his weight with relative ease. She kept him close and supported Charles as Erik had, with extreme care to Charles' injury, bringing up a hand to brush away an errant lock of hair that peeked out of the helmet. Erik didn't want to relinquish his burden, not when it seemed like the bullet's edges would be forever cut into the edges of his palm, but he couldn't argue with Raven's logic. Now was not the time to attack MacTaggert, but to get them off the beach before the idiots out at sea decided to try and end the mutant life ashore again. There were greater things at stake than a mere CIA agent's life. 

Raven looked up at him, eyes trusting even now, with Schmidt's body broken mere yards away, with his accusatory words and fury roiling beneath his skin, with the memory of his mouth on hers, with the fear and the hatred he'd created still lingering in the air. Erik nodded, staring down into Charles' face one last time before he stood. Alex, Hank and Sean were only steps away, eyes wide and frightened, but ready to stand their ground and help to protect Charles and Raven no matter how battered and bruised they appeared. He gave them one quick, approving nod, but they just watched him a wariness he hadn't seen in their faces since the first days of their meeting. 

The mutants from Schmidt's team and Angel had also crept closer, faces unsure and dark. Angel's wings had flattened to her skin again, but there was a stretch of dark, burned skin that glistened faintly with blood where they lay. Azazel seemed no worse for the wear beyond the slight inability to focus properly and occasional winces on particularly deep breaths. Riptide was covered in shallow cuts from the metal that Erik had bent down over him. In all, they looked no better or worse than then Alex, Hank, Sean and Raven, or even Charles and Erik himself. 

He approached them, hands slightly outspread and at the ready should they so much as twitch. Angel and Riptide didn't have much metal on them, but between the submarine and the shrapnel around them, Erik knew he wouldn't have a problem holding them off the second or two he'd need before the others could come to his aid. The thought struck him as strange for a moment, before he realized that for the first time ever he was expecting someone to come help him rather than just assuming they couldn't be trusted. He shook the thought off; after all, they'd already proven themselves capable of taking Schmidt's cohorts on. He could trust, at least, that they were no more willing to let them go free than he himself was. 

He faced them squarely, mouth set. Angel flinched and looked away, a dull crimson stain racing across her cheekbones. Erik ignored it, meeting instead both Riptide and Azazel's eyes. They stared back, curious but cold. Erik took a deep breath, mind racing. He needed to be practical about this, appeal to the threesome's common sense, make it seem like the option he gave them was more than just the best one—it was the only viable one. He had never mastered Charles' earnest persuasiveness, but he was practiced at striking at weak points. "Shaw is dead," he began flatly. "And Frost locked up. Knowing Shaw, I doubt any of you have full access to, or even a real understanding of all his accounts. Even if you manage to gain access, the CIA's on your trail now, and has been for a while. They'll be looking for you, and they've already shown they have no intention of being gentle. They'll be wanting their revenge too, for what you and Schmidt did to their facility, to their people." Erik's teeth glinted under the brilliant Cuban sun. "It's only a matter of time before they figure out a way to track you down and hold you." 

Azazel seemed to have been elected spokesman, if the glances the other two were directing his way were anything to go by. In his heavily accented voice, he inquired, "What do you suggest?" 

Erik looked down modestly, as though he wasn't quite sure as to the answer. His face, once he lifted it again, was carefully smooth. He would have one chance only to convince them. "If you come with us, we can protect you. I meant what I said. All of us mutants, working together to keep each other safe, is our best option. The humans have already shown they can't be trusted, that they _shouldn't_ be trusted. Like it or not, however, we're outnumbered by them for now. Together, we've got advantages no single one of us can match. With Schmidt dead and most of his resources currently lost to you, you're going to need all the help you can get and we could use people with your unique skills." He softened his voice a little, adding what persuasion he could to his tone. "You're all injured, too. If nothing else, we can guard each other's backs while we get medical aid." That was a reassurance and threat in and of itself. They'd already beaten Schmidt's mutants head on, and with Erik no longer tied to Schmidt's fate, the man's allies knew that they didn't stand a chance against them all if they decided to betray Erik, Charles and their students after they were all healed. 

Azazel didn't give any real outwards signs of agreeing with Erik, but some of the tension had leaked out of his stance. Erik held his breath, waiting for the man to speak. "What of the telepath?" he asked roughly, gesturing to the still prone Charles with a nod of his head. "As he is, he means danger for us all." 

This time, Erik didn't even try to disguise the way he bared his teeth as a smile. "Charles is a telepath who outclasses your Miss Frost in almost every category. We are not leaving him to be taken by the _government_." He injected a world's worth of scorn into the words. They seemed unconcerned by the mention of governments, however. No surprise, considering how Schmidt had made both the US and Russian governments dance like puppets on a string, driven inevitably towards their own destruction. 

Still, Erik was glad enough that the considering light disappeared from Riptide's eyes when Erik had mentioned how powerful Charles was. They had no real first-hand experience of Charles' powers, Erik recalled; Charles had been focused on helping Erik more than their other allies. Even Angel didn't have a real understanding of just how powerful the man was, at least, so Erik suspected. Charles was a master at downplaying his powers whenever possible, making them seem eerie but largely harmless. Schmidt's allies wouldn't risk Erik's bluff, not with Frost already being contained by the CIA, even if Charles was currently out of commission. 

As it was, they had to be aware that sooner or later, the CIA would try to offer Frost substantial funds or a deal to cut her sentence—or, even more likely, attempt to torture her into complaisance—in an effort to turn her against her former allies so they could quash the other mutants. By firing missiles on Cuban soil, they'd certainly proved they were willing to risk international censure and reaction to eradicate the mutant threat. Erik spent half a second wondering if she'd actually do it—the CIA had made the same offer to Charles in a lesser form, after all, asking him to keep a mental eye on his fellow mutants should they begin to engage in risky behavior that would reflect poorly on the government after the incident with the ill-advised party. 

They'd even offered a hefty sum to that effect, though they'd obviously not done their homework on exactly who Charles was. An Xavier had no need of government money, as Erik had found out. While Charles had employed some choice words in reply that had officially turned the cool negotiations into something downright frigid—with Erik's full support, which in retrospect had probably made things worse if the way they'd bristled was anything to go by—Frost lacked Charles' delicate sensibilities. At least pretending to obey the CIA's commands would offer Frost a multitude of options for her next step. Furthermore, the CIA was probably just foolish enough to think the problem solved. After all, they'd be—what was that charming phrase MacTaggert had used? Ah, yes. Fighting fire with fire. 

Erik shook the thoughts from his head; now was not the time to be considering Frost. _“_ Charles needs help. A hospital. Doctors who won't ask questions. I know you've got access to all three." They must, after all. It wasn't as if Azazel, at least, could just saunter into a doctor's office. Schmidt was paranoid and obsessive enough to want private healthcare facilities where he could ensure that any care he had was the best. The ability to absorb energy didn't preclude dying from illness, as far as Erik knew. "You need help too," he added, staring at Angel in particular. Her skin had gone ashy beneath her natural deep color and her entire shoulder and upper arm was slick with blood. He knew from experience how dangerous burns could get, especially if they were infected. He wouldn't wish that fate on anyone. 

Though he knew that Alex had done what was necessary to keep her from aiding Schmidt and the others, he hoped that her wings weren't permanently damaged. They truly were beautiful, and if she lost flight, it would be crippling to more than just her body. Erik needed only think for a moment if his own mutation was forcibly taken from him, and he shuddered. "If nothing else, we can watch each other's backs until everyone's healed, and then we can part ways amicably. Of course, we'll give you a way to contact us afterwards, should you ever decide that what we have to offer is worth it." Erik warmed the second part of the phrase, turned it into an enticement. That much, at least, he'd mastered from hearing Charles voice those very words over and over again. 

Erik must have done at least a halfway credible job. It helped, he realized almost immediately, to mean the words absolutely and completely. It wasn't necessary to be a telepath to convey that sort of sincerity. He would do just about anything to get Charles off this beach as soon as possible, to get them someplace where he could be helped so that they could disappear and prevent any government anywhere from ever being able to use them like cannon fodder again. He'd broken out in a cold sweat even on this hot beach, heart in his throat, as he watched them all exchange glances. He needed them to agree, needed their help for now—and he meant it, too. Though they'd been allied with Schmidt, though they'd attacked Alex, Sean and Hank, had killed Darwin, however indirectly, Erik wanted them with him, wanted them to marvel in their own gifts which had raised them so high above the human spawn. Erik knew— 

" _Erik!_ " The shriek came from two voices, female, one coming half a breath after the other. MacTaggert had gotten up while he'd been distracted, coming over to the rest of the group, though Raven's glare kept her at bay. Raven herself was still cradling her brother's still form in her arms, shielding him from view as though it would keep the human from doing more damage. 

Still, none of that mattered as Erik realized exactly why they had screamed his name. Charles had started thrashing in Raven's arms, shaking apart at the seams, in the throes of what looked like a seizure. Everything else faded in the light of Charles' agonized and horrified expression, the way his body was fighting Raven's hold. 

For the second time in the span of ten minutes, Erik found himself falling to his knees besides Charles without remembering how he'd crossed the intermediate distance, trying to hold down his flailing limbs. He didn't know what to do, didn't know what had caused this, didn't know how to help Charles. His limited medical knowledge didn't begin to aid him, and he was almost grateful when Hank, in a move that he'd never even have considered before his transformation, bowled them all over and began rearranging Charles' body to prevent him from choking. Erik almost lashed out, almost drove a metal shard into the fur-covered man before Erik realized that Hank, with his medical knowledge, was trying to help. 

Desperate, Erik pulled back to let Hank do his work; he was Charles' only chance, now. He turned to Azazel, the panic almost a comforting and familiar buzz under his skin, so long had he dwelt with it. "Help him!" he shouted across that wide, sandy expanse. 

Azazel's blue eyes gazed at him steadily, coolly. He held out his hand to Riptide, who in turn extended it to Angel's uninjured hand, all without speaking a word. Still holding Erik's gaze, they disappeared, the red billowing, sulphurous smoke lingering in the air. 

Erik didn't have time to protest at their disappearance before Azazel and the others snapped back into reality directly beside Erik, this time with Azazel's free hand out towards the metallokinetic. "There is a hospital we used, sometimes," he said offhandedly, as though it didn't really matter. Erik wanted to weep, possibly, or scream at him for not simply agreeing, or something, but the only thing he could manage with the enormous lump in his throat was to grasp Azazel's solid hand, the red skin cool and leathery against his own. "What of the human?" Azazel inquired dispassionately. 

Erik took a moment to remember MacTaggert, who was involved in doing something with Hank. She was pulling something out of the medical bag and passing it over to the newly transformed man; she'd mentioned once that she knew field medicine and was well versed in using it. Hank absently nodded his thanks to MacTaggert and turned back to Charles, his mind clearly focused on his patient. Erik was glad that fetching what Hank needed was all MacTaggert was doing; if she'd actually dared to touch Charles, Erik would have killed her without thought, without hesitation. He couldn't bear knowing her hands had aided him. Not when MacTaggert had been the one to shoot him in the first place. 

"We take her with us and deal with her later after we see how much she knows. We can't leave her to make a report to the government, not with everything she's seen, but Charles isn't conscious to wipe her and we can't kill her until we've found out what she's passed along." Erik sensed that everyone clustered to Charles' side turned to stare at him sharply, but he didn't even glance at them. His coldly practical side was taking over and he knew his earlier decision to kill her for harming Charles had been rash. It was better to wait, rather than be blindsided by something MacTaggert had reported later on. 

Azazel shrugged, as though it didn't really matter to him one way or another. Angel and Riptide's faces were equally neutral, still unsure about this new and perhaps temporary alliance, just as Erik himself was. He knew they didn't have time to reassure each other, however, not with the way Hank's voice was dropping increasingly towards a growl as he barked out orders, Raven moving beside him. 

Erik held out a hand, and Raven's gloved palm slid against his own. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as Raven gripped Charles' wrist, with Hank on the other side and on down, ending with MacTaggert, who cast a wary glance at them all before visibly steeling herself and grabbing Alex's hand. Sean and Alex sent her looks, probably an attempt at reassuring her, but Erik didn't care. It wasn't as though they could really stop him from doing as he pleased, although they'd certainly be able to make it difficult. No matter now, though. Charles was the only thing that concerned Erik right now, the one thing that was filling up Erik's mind and making any sort of rational thought difficult. 

"Thank you," Erik found himself saying to Azazel, who looked at him in surprise. He didn't know why he said it, except that he vaguely felt that Charles would have. 

Azazel studied him for a second, brow creased, before everything disappeared into ashes and smoke.


	3. Injuries and Expectations

_The first time he woke up, he screamed._

_Charles never recalled actually doing it. After all, the machines went berserk and they sedated him heavily within seconds of the alarm occurring. He wasn't entirely surprised when he inadvertently plucked the information of the episode from his doctor's mind later, drugged and fuzzy and control too badly shattered for him to do anything but attempt to rebuild it from scratch, piece by piece. All those minds, all that pain, all that crushing, bone-deep fear; how could it not have overwhelmed him when he was already so unbearably raw? It took the better part of three days to do more than stare blankly up at the ceiling, all his concentration focused on not breaking down and sobbing, or possibly throwing up, or projecting his pain to everyone in a five mile radius._

_The second time he woke up, he wept._

_Charles didn't recall waking up this time either. Having his shields locked in place, being as close to alone in his own skull as he was ever able to get, only seemed to compound his guilt and fear. His excellent memory, as much a gift as a curse, whispered insidiously to him, showing him every place where he could have been kinder, smarter, faster, where he'd failed so inconceivably that it shamed him to his core. For a man who had the ability to invade anyone's mind, he understood it not half as well as he believed. He wasn't aware of becoming conscious, as such; he was lost entirely amongst his own thoughts, the piercing shriek of them clawing at his skin and leaving bloody furrows. In the face of such things, the arbitrary delineation of 'awake' and 'asleep' seemed ridiculous and foolish in the wake of the wide expanse of pain he was feeling no matter which state he was in._

_The doctors fretted over him for a number of days, wondering at the strangeness of their patient, at the way he slipped between consciousness and unconsciousness without ever being properly aware even when off sedation. Later, when Charles had gained slightly better control of his powers, he gently pushed away their worry over him, and their mind filled in the blanks automatically, providing ample reasons why their concerns were unfounded: after the better part of a day in and out of surgery, after more pain medication and treatment than most saw in their lifetime, it seemed only natural that the man be out of sorts for longer than expected. He made things soft and simple for them, muting the edges._

_When he was almost himself again except for being trapped in his own skin, he soothed their minds further. There was no way for him to steal the better part of two weeks from their brain, no way that their minds could flex around that huge amount of time without causing permanent damage and stress he could ill afford in this condition. So he simply redirected their minds, shifted a few key details. None of his doctors or nurses would have quite the same matching story, from who had come to visit Charles to what precisely had happened to him, from where he'd gone to when he'd been released. He painted his stay in the hospital in grey detail, stealing the sharp threads of knowledge from their minds and making it a point of boredom they never considered if they could help it._

_He threw up after it, chest heaving and throat aching at how he'd already been forced to change himself to keep the others safe, locked in a ruin of a body that no longer moved when he ordered it to. He shouldn't be rearranging these people's heads to suit his needs, not when they weren't any real danger. He had to protect everyone's identity, though, had to hide them away until they could muster their meager resources and meet Magneto head on. After all, Charles had been inside the man's glorious mind, and above all else, Charles had no doubt that Magneto would not stop. Not_ ever _._ _So now neither could Charles._

~*~

Erik inhaled sharply when Azazel's transportation pulled them away from the beach. It was very much like being yanked through a hole that was not nearly the right size or shape for Erik to fit through. There was an instant of pressure, of tightness, of immense heat or perhaps cold, he couldn't even tell, and then what felt like nothing so much as a bubble popping. He staggered when he came out and he toppled over before he even realized that he'd arrived, barely reacting quickly enough to get a hand beneath him to break his fall. He blinked as he reoriented himself, with the too clean white walls and the heavy antiseptic smell in his nose. 

He was lashing out before he realized what was happening, hands flying to the double doors in front of them to keep them shut. He knew he couldn't hold them for long, as exhausted as he was, mentally and physically, but he looked around immediately, trying to figure out where Herr Doktor had stashed the metal implements that he so loved to taunt Erik with; too weak and in too much pain, so often they may as well have been a thousand kilometers away for all the effect his powers had. Now he had his chance, though. For once, the good doctor hadn't left him in quite enough pain before leaving Erik alone with his torture instruments. 

"Erik!" a sharp, frightened voice barked in his ear. "You've got to stop! Calm down!" 

_Calm your mind!_

It was a ghostly whisper, an echo of it, but it was enough that Erik jerked his hands back, releasing his power as he came back to where he was and why. He was in what appeared to be an entrance hall, with wide windows that had the late afternoon sunlight pouring through, softly manicured grounds giving a carefully cultivated sense of peace. There was a woman at a receptionist's desk, already calmly talking on the phone as she relayed the scene in front of her. Her demeanor didn't change when Erik scowled at her. Rather her gaze was focused on Azazel, awaiting orders as she hung up the phone. 

His heart rate slowed as he reassured himself that no one was in danger of getting themselves dissected any time soon, and he inhaled slowly and released the breath, trying to center his frazzled mind. The teleporter had just done as Erik asked, taking them to a secure facility where they could heal themselves. He couldn't stop his screaming instincts, but he could at least keep himself from acting on them for the time being. Still, his nerves were stretched tight and ready to break the instant he was given cause to unleash his gift. Distrust thrummed in his veins. 

Raven's hand was a crushing presence on his arm, amber eyes frightened; as usual, she was surprisingly strong for her stature. Charles, beside her, was still now; there was a syringe on the floor, and Charles' sleeve had been pushed up, a pinprick of blood welling against unnaturally pale skin. Erik had to stop his visceral reaction, which was to force Hank away by any means necessary and protect Charles from whatever science project Hank had planned. Instead, he struggled to remind himself that though Hank had a tendency to sacrifice his own health for science, and Charles was much the same, Hank would never experiment on Charles without his explicit permission. Of course, that often spawned its own host of problems. Still, Erik managed to restrain himself, instead watching Hank's every move, hawk-like, to the exclusion of all else. 

Hank felt the weight of Erik's gaze, and glanced up at him. Erik wasn't sure whether it was Hank's newly arrived bestial tendencies or simply that he was utterly focused on his work, but Hank's voice was clipped but calm as he announced, "He's sedated and stable, as far as I can tell. I managed to get to him before he did any damage to himself during his seizure. From what Charles has told me about his telepathy, we should be able to take the helmet off without him projecting." 

"How sure are of that?" Erik demanded. 

Hank continued to meet his gaze. "As sure as I can be, given the circumstances." 

Something in Erik relaxed at that. He'd come, over the past few weeks, to realize that when it came to science, Hank's desire to know the truth often overcame his cripplingly shy exterior and gave him an unexpected but refreshing confidence. He wouldn't lie or prevaricate or try to bluff his way out. He either knew, or he didn't, and he was normally able to state things with far less hesitance, though his excitement usually made him trip over the words regardless, dazzled by the possibilities that were stretched out before him. Erik nodded once, giving his permission. 

Hank eased it off slowly, with Erik watching carefully, gripping the helmet faintly with his power; he'd react far quicker than Hank would to get the helmet back on if necessary. Only distantly did he note the way all the others held their breaths, faces tight with anxiety for Charles. Erik braced himself for Charles' pain as the helmet slid free, but the sedative seemed to have served its purpose, and Charles' face remained lax as Hank completely pulled off the helmet and set it aside, furtively glancing at Erik out of the corner of his eye as he did so. 

Erik ignored the way everyone's shoulders sagged when he didn't immediately take the helmet up and put it on again, a tension he hadn't even realized was there ebbing away. He didn't let the tangle of emotions—the regret, the pain, the insecurity, the relief, the sorrow—show on his face. They had no room to judge his actions. 

Instead, he glanced up, distracting himself with the feel of metal on warm bodies coming through the door. With the entrance now free, four men and an additional two women walked through them, immediately fanning out to see to the injured mutants. All of their faces were carefully blank, almost artificially still. Their eyes were fearful, though, as they stopped several feet away without question, deferring to the mutants in front of them with practiced motions. Stiff-necked, one of the men walked over to Azazel and nodded, staring at the man's chest, body canted away defensively. "Sir," he greeted shortly in a rough Germanic accent. Austrian, perhaps. 

Azazel's smile was cool even as his tail lashed in agitation. "That man is hurt." He pointed to Charles. "He was shot in the back. He had seizure and was sedated, but otherwise has cuts and bruises only." He nodded at the doctors, dismissing them from his attention. Immediately, the men and women sprang into action, one woman running out into the hall to get a gurney while another three came to check Charles' vital signs, conferring with Hank in deferential voices without speaking down to him. It seemed that was some good, at least; clearly these humans knew who was in charge and acted as such no matter what their outer appearance was. 

Azazel continued to speak quietly with the man who had come forward, briefly pointing out those whose injuries he knew. Erik ignored that, having eyes only for Charles; medical aid was a luxury he'd gone without for most of his life, and he could do so for a little while longer. When they smoothly shifted Charles onto the flattened gurney, Erik flinched almost reflexively, fearing for Charles' reaction, but Hank's sedatives had well and truly put Charles out and the man didn't make a single sound. When they'd strapped him in place, they raised the gurney, double checking all of the fastenings to ensure that no further harm would come to their patient. 

Before they could whisk Charles off into the bowels of the facility, however, Erik stepped over to the doctors and locked the metal in place as they tried to start rolling him off. There was one last thing for Erik to say, before he permitted these strangers to take Charles away. "If anything happens to him, I'll kill you," he promised casually, tight mouth belying the relative lightness of his tone. If he needed to, he could destroy their records of Charles on their way out, so it cost him nothing to let them to record whatever data they saw fit. With Charles awake, even their memories of the event would become fallible and untrustworthy, for Charles would see it was necessary to the safety of the mutant cause. Charles was powerful enough that it would be but the work of a moment, once he was at Erik's side once more. 

The doctors didn't really react to his threat, but Erik hadn't expected them too. After what Schmidt had done so causally to Erik in order to give him access to his powers, torturing these humans just because he could would not have been outside the norm. In fact, Erik had all but assumed it and fully planned to take advantage of it, and when the one woman simply turned to him with flat eyes and nodded, Erik gazed back with cool indifference. Schmidt was dead, left to rot on a beach in the hot sun. He could do no more here; at least whoever had been under the man's thumb could now be free once Erik had no more use for them. 

The other most injured party, Angel, was whisked off as well, almost before Charles was out the door. As they were moved, another wave of people came through the entrance. With the two worst hurt gone, the man—yet another doctor, in all likelihood, Erik realized—lead the rest of them through the halls in the same direction that Charles and Angel were being wheeled. While they were taken further down the corridor, Erik and the rest of the mutants were led into a series of rooms where several doctors awaited. There was a set of floor to ceiling windows that showed an almost idyllic stretch of a forest that reached out as far as the eye could see in this direction. It might have been peaceful, had it not been for the sterility of the room and the chill in the air that pervaded despite Erik's suit. 

Alex, Sean, Hank and MacTaggert hung back, Raven and Erik stopping just in front of them, while Azazel and Riptide pushed past them, casually disrobing on the way and dropping their garments to the floor, uncaring of their exposed skin. A nurse scurried behind them, taking the clothing away and dumping them all down a chute labeled biohazard before pulling curtains around the beds they'd hopped onto, the doctors instantly at their beck and call. "They will heal you," Azazel announced dismissively just before he was hidden from view, gesturing at the people around him vaguely. "Tell them if you require anything." 

Despite Azazel's off-hand reassurance, the others looked to Erik for guidance, even if they didn't meet his gaze. He rolled his eyes, leaning against an exam table even as he stretched out his senses as far as he could. Two pieces of metal blazed in his mind; the helmet, which had been moved from the entrance way hall into an anterior room two doors down, close enough that he could have it brought to him in a second's time. The other was the operating table that Charles had been moved to, the table which was as warm as the feel of Charles' skin against his own. A doctor came to attend to him, but Erik shook his head. "I want to see what you do to all of them. Hank?" 

He peeled back his lips from his teeth. "Yes?" he inquired, the normally uncertain voice still carrying that hint of a growl in it now. It was strangely reassuring, a reminder that he was not the only one who didn't trust Schmidt's facility or its people. 

Erik gestured for Sean to hop on the table, and took a menacing position to the doctor's left. The doctor swallowed in a very gratifying fashion. Sean looked like he was going to protest, mouth working, but he caught Erik's eyes. The older man put a reassuring hand on Sean's elbow, meeting the teen's eyes squarely. He'd slice every human in the room to shreds before he allowed another one of his kind to come to harm, and despite himself he'd grown fond of the young men and women that Charles couldn't keep from referring to as 'the children'. The thought of Charles had his heart squeezing in his chest, and he reflexively cast out his powers, once more honing in on the warm operating table. Still alive. If only he could steal Charles' power for just a moment, to be able to remain here and yet determine how the operation was going, to be able to know with an absolute certainty that whatever the doctors were doing would cause no harm. 

Sean stared at him for a moment, but whatever he found in Erik's face must have reassured him for the time being, because he cleared his throat. "I, uh, might need some help getting out of this suit. I landed badly—my arm, mostly. It, uh, hurts. I don't think I can get out of my uniform." He swallowed, and for the first time, Erik realized how Sean's freckles stood out like dark marks on his wan skin, the way the sweat had been beading at his temples. He hadn't given a single word of how much pain he was in, and Erik hadn't bothered to ask. 

It made Erik cast a new eye over Alex and Hank, appraising. The disk that had been channeling Alex's powers was gone, the place where metal met uniform singed, and Alex's skin was dangerously inflamed where Angel's acidic spit—for Erik didn't know what else could have caused that damage—had gotten through. He, too, was covered in general cuts and bruises, and was favoring his right leg. Probably not broken, but definitely heavily bruised, maybe sprained. Hank too, was sporting cuts and bruises, the one on his face just now starting to scab over. Like Azazel, he seemed to have at least cracked some ribs, and he was squinting in a way that all but screamed that he was concussed. Erik found himself hoping that nothing had been damaged permanently. Raven was in the best shape, with only those bruises she'd picked up when Riptide had blown the jet onto the beach marring her; even they were nearly impossible to see against the blue of her skin. 

Erik's back straightened. There would be no more of this, no more of this mutant-versus-mutant war. The cost—Charles' back, Angel's wings—had already proven the cost too dear. It was foolish to divide themselves when the humans were out for their blood. Instead, Erik would defend them all as best as he could. He glared at the doctor once more for good measure, then looked at Hank, unspoken question in his eyes. The blue-furred man nodded shortly. Hank was not a medical doctor, but he was as voracious a reader as Charles was, and had a mind for the mechanics of invention and experimentation like no one else Erik had ever know. At the very least, Hank would know enough to be able to tell whether the doctor was doing something that might be a risk to their friends. 

"May I?" the doctor gestured, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes deepening. 

Erik waited for Sean to give his permission; he nodded, adding, "Yeah, Doctor..." he trailed off when he realized that he didn't know the man's name. 

The doctor smiled thinly. "Doctor Baum." 

"Frederick Baum?" Hank questioned suddenly, looking shocked. The bestial characteristics that now marked his face made the expression almost exaggerated, eyes near comically wide and face twisted with bewilderment. 

"Once upon a time," the older man quipped, before returning his gaze and attention to his patient. "We're going to start by cutting you out of this suit, and then we'll get some x rays of your arm to see whether it's broken. While those are developing, we'll splint your arm and check whatever else hurts. If your arm is broken, we'll get you set up with a cast." 

Erik kept one eye on the doctor and directed the other half of his attention towards Hank. The other man grimaced a little, and then shook his head, mouthing, "Later." 

Doctor Baum caught the exchange, however, and turned a hard stare on Erik. His hands moved along the seam of Sean's uniform without pausing, slicing it up neatly and without ever coming close to the mutant's skin. The doctor smiled grimly, and his eyes were almost reptilian for a moment, filled with a flat and alien coldness that disturbed Erik for reasons that he couldn't name. His tone was almost jovial and light in contrast and when he turned back to his work casually, he murmured, "Your friend there is going to tell you that I am a dead man walking." 

Whatever Erik had been expecting, that wasn't it. "Hank?" he asked cautiously. 

Hank continued to stare at the man, mouth twisted up in something approaching a grimace. "Frederick Baum supposedly died three years ago in a house fire. The police never determined for sure what caused it, though the fire department believed it started as a kitchen fire; it was put down to a freak accident of some sort. He was one of the premiere dermatologists on the west coast, specializing in various skin diseases like leprosy; he was on the team that did the breakthrough research on clofazimine. He's also done extensive research as a part of that to the structure of skin as a while, which helped revolutionize dermatological applications of certain medicines and the treatment of skin cancer. They never found his body in the fire, but they found the body of his wife, both their sons and their three year old daughter as well as the housekeeper in the house. They couldn't even identify which son was which, and Baum's body was assumed he was somewhere in the wreckage, too badly damaged to be discovered." 

That hardness in Baum's eyes suddenly made far more sense. Erik's expression never changed, however, though the rest of his team looked at Baum with varying degrees of sorrow or pain. Erik had always known that his could not have been the only life that Schmidt had wrecked, so the story didn't come as much of a surprise. 

Baum shrugged, as though the facts were of no great matter. "I should have listened to Shaw's expectations when he first brought them to my attention." Erik saw the brief tightening at the corners of his eyes, however, and knew that this was a man who had hated for three long years. Doctor Baum's mouth was a thin, merciless slash. "He has his own powers of persuasion, when he chooses to use them. Would that I had listened when his kinder offers were still on the table." 

Erik watched at Hank cast a new eye over the faces he'd found vaguely familiar, his intelligence placing faces to their names and fates, a subtle growl building in his chest. Hank was a man of science, who found the perversion of their work to Schmidt's own ends to be repulsive, Erik was sure. 

Erik, however, cared nothing for these men and women, save that they were still here; whatever they'd lost, however Schmidt had raised his hand against them, they had not made their bid against him, following his lead even after all the ways he'd found to flay the hope from them. There were those who still had families they wished to get back to, possibly, or those who had a reason to survive. He'd seen them in the camps, seen the way they kept their heads down. Those were the ones easy to cow, but they were often in the minority, especially towards the end. Most probably had nothing left to lose, and yet had remained here regardless, as Baum had. They might dislike their work, but they had not killed themselves to keep from aiding Schmidt's plan or attacked him outright; Erik himself had tried suicide three times before Schmidt had found other, more effective, deterrents to discourage such things in his prized pet and even then he had never stopped plotting ways to kill him and the Nazis who supported him. 

A cold, enraged pity sat heavy in his breast, directly beneath that complicated knot of terror for Charles. He couldn't understand why they hadn't driven themselves to find a way to permanently end Schmidt as he had been driven, especially once he'd escaped the camps; the pity turned to disgust all over again. He had killed Schmidt for what he'd done—the mere thought made his blood sing and his pulse pound heavy all over his body, the thick coils of rage and victory settling down over him—and here Baum stood, small and frail and _human_. 

He had to keep reminding himself that he could not lash out at these weak humans, that he needed them, if only for now, to keep Charles alive. He had the leisure, now that Schmidt was gone, to hunt these humans down one day at his convenience—as he would the other humans who stood in his way of a mutant world. He could sense MacTaggert's uneven breathing behind him, where she was standing out of his way, where she'd tried to become invisible. As though that was even possible, with her dog tags blazing with the inscription of the human government who had started this war they'd never win. 

"Uh, Erik?" Alex muttered, looking around them nervously. Hank pressed against him, not quite back to back, but ready to guard themselves. Raven had backed away from Erik, towards Sean, who had flinched and was leaning as far back as possible. They were all staring at him with varying looks of anxiety, the same he'd seen on their face for Charles, but now it was tinged with uncertainty and a wariness that he disliked seeing on their faces. They hadn't trusted him in quite the same way they'd trusted Charles, and for good reason. He'd been dangerous. Was dangerous. 

"Dude, get a hold of yourself," Sean gasped, voice going up in pitch. He cautiously reached out, but didn't quite touch Erik. "Snap out of it, you're like, freaking out." The anxiety in his voice, and in Alex's earlier, brought Erik back to himself. 

Erik blinked, not having realized that he'd even closed his eyes. Every piece of metal in the room was neatly suspended as though by wires, not so much as a shiver disturbing the eerie hush that had fallen over the room. Doctor Baum stared at him, the scissors he'd been using hovering dangerously close to his face. Erik met his gaze evenly, the artificial hospital light painting him in hard lines even with the sunlight streaming through the room's windows. Very deliberately, without ever looking away from the doctor, Erik released his control, the objects slowly and smoothly setting themselves down. The scissors, however, he caught. "I believe these are yours, Herr Doktor," he told the man smoothly. "Keep an eye on them so they aren't misplaced." 

He left Sean to Hank and the others without another word; for all he'd intended to guard them and keep them safe in Charles' stead, they would watch each other's backs, and he knew they'd not take it kindly if he decided to skewer the doctor where he stood. They hadn't yet learned to hate the humans, for what they'd done. They were no longer children, that was true, but they were still soft in the way Charles had been—was. The way Charles was. Again, he couldn't help that reflexive stretch to the warm metal of the telepath's table. If he closed his eyes and focused solely on that metal, he could feel the faintest of vibrations, too. Charles' heartbeat. 

Erik swallowed, resisting the urge to rub at his face as he walked towards Azazel and Riptide. If they were going to survive the next weeks, the next months, the next _years_ with everyone alive, the children needed to learn to defend themselves first and foremost, needed to know how to push past exhaustion and pain, needed to rely only on each other, the only people that should be trusting. Erik's eyes hardened as he thought of what Charles was sure to say when he heard of all this. 

_They're not soldiers, Erik! They're not fodder to be used up in an endless war, chewed up and spat out! They need more than a life on the run all the time, more than constant horror and anxiety. They need a home, they need care, and they need the chance to grow without fearing what they can do._ Charles would never say it, but Erik knew what the man couldn't bear to give voice to; he wanted to give them everything that Erik had never gotten after Schmidt took him. The peace, the love, the training and the balance. Little comforts in life like good food and games. Hope for the future. 

They needed a home. 

And it seemed like all Erik could provide for them was scars. 

Erik had to leave them, at least for now; they could look out for each other better than Erik would ever be able to. 

"Erik..." that was Raven, hard on his heels. "Erik, wait just a second, dammit. At least let them look over your injuries." Her voice was strident, and demanding, already so far a cry from how she'd have spoken to him even two days prior, with a healthy amount of trepidation in her voice. Erik almost wished she was still the timid young girl, afraid of herself and jumping at shadows, uneasy in her skin. At least that girl he could intimidate into holding her tongue. This headstrong woman would do no such thing, and he was in no condition to engage in a verbal duel. "Unless you'd like to keel over? What if something happens to Charles?" 

A dangerous question—perhaps the most dangerous one. It made the air go out of Erik's chest, and it was like he was trying and failing to raise the submarine all over again, trapped and drowning. Fighting to keep his breaths even, he stopped perfectly still. "You're his sister. Aren't you supposed to be making those sorts of decisions? You know him the best." The words came out gravelly and rough, harsh and demanding. He couldn't look at her, wouldn't look at her. 

Raven's laugh was low, and only a touch bitter. It was better than he'd have been able to manage, certainly, and something in him relented at the sound. Charles might have been the one who had made himself a home in Erik's head and heart, but the others had their holds on him as well. He looked over his shoulder at Raven. White teeth flashed against that blue, blue skin, and she raised her chin. "I wonder what kind of world you live in, that you think that's actually true these days. It's very...quaint of you." She turned the words into a scathing derision. "Really, Erik. Usually you're more observant than that." 

She brushed by him, planting herself solidly in front of him. "What would Charles say?" she inquire reproachfully, and it was on the tip of Erik's tongue to protest that he wasn't a child—he might have, if he hadn't been struck by an image of him making that exact protest as a youth to his mother after a scolding when he'd been running around without permission. Raven saw the hesitation on his face for that split second, before he could cover it up again, and she seized her chance. Without asking his permission, she grabbed onto his upper arm and mercilessly pulled him back towards the bed next to the one Sean was in, either ignorant or uncaring of his half-hearted attempts to escape. She was far stronger than her stature should have suggested. "Unlike you, when I say I'm fine I actually mean it." She shoved him at the bed, and it was either catch himself on the edge of the frame and pull himself upwards, or go tumbling onto the floor. He turned back to glare at her, but she was unrepentant. "Bed. Now. Look, you can even see what they're doing to Sean from here." 

Sean, on cue, gave a little wave, looking remarkably unconcerned with the fact that Erik was glowering at him and Doctor Baum, who was patiently peeling away the suit with gentle care towards Sean's injured arm. Hank let out a little sigh as his work was destroyed, but Alex patted him on the shoulder and reminded him, "You're going to need to make new ones anyways." They seemed to have taken Erik's little flare of temper in stride. Then again, they'd been exposed to it in varying degrees over the past few weeks, so perhaps Erik shouldn't have been surprised. At a time like this when all their tempers were frayed, it barely registered. He wanted them to be furious, to blame him, but they mostly looked like tired kids, bloody and battered and bruised. 

Erik sighed, shoulders slumping as he relented. There would be time enough to make demands and seek answers of Azazel and Riptide later, when everyone was healed and rested. The others crowded in a little towards him as though he could give the comforting and gentle words that Charles had been so good at, but he didn't even make the attempt. Instead he turned his back on them and starting to strip out of his flight suit. Modesty had never been something that concerned him overly, so he didn't care that he was still exposed to the rest of the room, though he heard Raven sigh heavily behind him and shut the curtains herself. "As much as I admire the free show, I don't think Hank and the others need the trauma of seeing you naked." 

He heard the emphatic murmurs of agreement and rolled his eyes. "I'm wearing underpants," he protested, feeling vaguely ridiculous at the need to protest at all. It was such a strange, normal thing to have said that it almost seemed like someone else entirely had spoken. They ignored him, however, murmuring in voices muffled by the surprisingly thick curtains. He shrugged off the residual strangeness and applied himself to his task with a stiff single-mindedness. Once undressed, he took stock of himself. Tearing apart the room Schmidt had been hiding in had left its mark; a series of shallow open cuts on his forehead, and more cuts and bruises on his body as well as a general bone-deep ache. He pulled back the curtains, and Raven planted herself firmly at Erik's side, refusing to let him out of sight, gesturing for Hank, Alex, Sean and MacTaggert to stick together and get on with things. They busied themselves, Hank speaking quietly to Sean, and Alex hopping onto the far table to get medical aid as well. 

Erik wanted to warn them all not to relax, that this wasn't a safe place, but then yet another doctor was looking at him nervously and he was busy warding off those old and suffocating fears. "May I?" he asked, reaching out to Erik's forehead. He balked a little, but gingerly allowed the man to approach, swallowing as he glanced at the metal implements close at hand. Again and again he reminded himself that he was far from helpless. The doctor's hands fluttered. "I need to clean this out and—" he stopped, peering. Taking out a small penlight, he peered more closely at Erik's forehead and breathed out a quiet curse. "I'm sorry, sir," he began in an apologetic tone, "But I believe you may have some glass in those cuts. Before I can do anything, I've got to take those out." 

Erik sighed impatiently, making a, "Well, get on with it" gesture. 

The doctor selected a syringe. "An anesthetic," he explained awkwardly and a little uncertainly, eyes flicking to Raven for a moment before returning to Erik. "Just a mild one. For wounds like these, even the tiniest of flinches could have dangerous consequences." 

Before Erik could refuse, Raven snapped, "Oh, just do it. Erik, stop moving around, he's not going to kill you, because then I'd be forced to kill _him_." She eyed him, scowling, and Erik was trying to mount a protest that she might actually listen to instead of simply ignoring as beneath her notice, trying to wriggle his way out of it when the doctor slid the needle smoothly into his vein while Erik's attention was focused on Raven. He jerked his arm, the needle flying out and embedding itself in the far wall after an astute dodge by the doctor who had injected him, but it was too late; the drug was in his system. He grabbed the nearest metal things with blinding speed, arming himself. "Stop, Erik!" Raven cried, appearing in his vision with bizarre suddenness. He blinked at her stupidly for a second or two. Within another handful of seconds, the room was swimming around him, his headache and nausea intensifying for a horrifying moment until he thought he was going to vomit all over his own lap. Raven's smug face loomed over him as she helped him lay back. 

He managed to gasp, "You _bitch_ ," just in time for his last sight to be Raven's victorious smile.


	4. A Minute Will Reverse

_There was a time, between waking and sleeping, where Charles forgot._

_He basked for just a moment in the warmth of his bed before attempting to turn over and reach out to the minds around him, the early morning awakening of life that had filled his empty home—and he always searched for Erik and Raven first. His best friend and his sister, the two people he'd let deeper into his heart than anyone else almost before he'd known it was happening._

_Then he'd remember that they were gone, never to return again, and they'd taken his strength with them, and his wounds were ripped open once again._

_In his later years, it almost became a part of his daily routine—to rip himself anew every day, broken and tired, only to patch himself back together in the same painstaking way that he'd made the slow return to his chair each morning. It hurt, it tore at him, a second or two of private hell that he bore as his due. All his flaws, exposed for him in his mind's eye, showing him exactly where he was wanting and how much he had failed since the day on the beach._

_It never got easier._

_It did get more manageable, though, the same way the loss of his legs never got easier, but simply became routine. Part of his life, now._

_Nevertheless, he still had nightmares about that first time even years later—when he awoke, in shattered pieces, and found the pair of them gone._

_He'd reached out with his hazy telepathy while still in the hospital, grasping for help, grasping for the familiar. Grasping to find a way to understand with the pressing pain and fear and despair of the hundreds of minds around him. He was in all of them, stealing pieces of them that he'd never meant to take, and he tried to find someone safe to rest in, tried to find his friend and his sister._

_“Erik, Raven,“ he gasped, eyes wild, struggling against the drugs and panic. They weren't there. They weren't there—where were they? Oh, God,_ where were they? _“Erik? Erik! Raven!“ he choked, fighting to stand up, to find them, telepathy going haywire as Charles tried to breath. They were gone, and he didn't know where they were, or if they were safe, and he was so very afraid._

_Voices—he heard voices, but they weren't the ones he was looking for, and he fought the hands that grabbed at him, trying to scream for them, for the loved ones that had been lost and needed to be found, furious that they were gone—_

_“Do something!“ a voice shouted._

_Charles slipped away to the sound of someone crying._

~*~ 

Erik came awake all at once, as he'd trained himself to do, his pulse pounding in his ears. Someone was moving at his left side, a susurration that sounded like paper and clothing. Keeping his eyes closed, he stretched out his power and searched for the metal around him from the way the magnetic fields bent around it. The bedpan and medical implements were enough of a weapon in their own right. He carefully wrapped his power around them, keeping his breathing slow and even. He kept himself as calm as possible even as the hair on the back of his neck stood on end at being this prone besides another person. 

"You forget," Raven said dryly from beside him, and a page turned, "That I am better trained in reading body language than most. I know you're awake, Erik." 

Instead of alleviating his fear, it simply coalesced. Erik simply sat up, furious, and hurled the bedpan at her head. It missed by perhaps half an inch, and if she'd flinched even a little, the effect might have been disastrous. She gazed at him coolly through all of it, expression too controlled; Erik knew that look, and was sure that he'd at least unnerved her. "Are you done?" she asked instead, and Erik almost wanted to ask what she'd done with Raven—the Raven he'd come to expect, shy, ashamed, awkward. The woman in front of him was unconcerned, meeting his eyes, back straight as she watched him. 

Fury boiled. "If you ever pull that sort of stunt again, I'm going to drop you into the ocean with a paper-cut and let sharks feed on you," he snarled. Some of his old scars flared in sympathy; he'd been in a hospital, unconscious— _knocked out—_ unable to tell what was happening to him. He was out of bed in an instant, looming over Raven, lips curled away from teeth. 

That got him a steely-eyed glare; the magazine she'd been reading was dropped to the floor carelessly. The words started out as a hiss, but gradually rose until she was shouting back, "Oh, really? So you would have let the doctors do what needed to be done, and then you would have rested afterwards so you didn't do yourself more damage? You would have listened to him, and you would have listened to us? You wouldn't have driven yourself to the brink and the over, stalking the doctors for a single piece of news over Charles?" She rose as she spoke the last words, going toe to toe with Erik. 

"You had _no right_ to do that to me," Erik snapped back, anger surging inside him, barely covering the fear of it all, of having been forced unconscious and then examined and treated, of having _things_ done to him without his knowledge. "You had no right to order me sedated, or to let the doctors do as they pleased. You had no right to—to—" he had no way to describe it, to enunciate the violation, the sense of having had something sacred ripped away. Schmidt's invasive experiments came back in full color, and the smell of blood and antiseptic was heavy in his nose. He wanted to throttle Raven, to lock her up as he'd been and force her to see—but no, he had to restrain himself, had to remind himself that Charles would kill him if he killed Raven. 

He turned away, taking a deep breath and taking stock of himself. The only injuries that he could feel were the ones he'd come in with; stitches pulled a little on his shoulder, but the rest of his aches and pains were familiar. Erik let out a little shuddering breath, trying to calm himself. This time, at least, nothing had happened. Raven reached out, hand resting lightly on his shoulder. She pressed herself close, not quite a hug, but a reassurance that he wasn't alone. 

Raven pulled Erik back to face her, and drew herself up, mouth tight but her eyes softer. "I am sorry," she began in a shaking voice. "I really am. I should have told you. I know I should have. But you needed to rest as much as everyone else. I was wrong to do that to you, and I'm sorry," she repeated, searching his face for something. Forgiveness wouldn't be forthcoming for a while, but there was acceptance there and Raven was willing to work with what she could get. "I, at least, am okay, mostly, and I just...I needed..." her breathe caught and she scrubbed at her face, looking exhausted. 

"Charles is still in the operating room, and it's been seven hours, and they can't tell me anything useful, and no one seems to know exactly what's going on. That's my brother in there, and—" she caught herself as her voice began to rise, shook her head harshly, then continued on in a more normal tone of voice. It sounded strangled, and her eyes were suspiciously damp. "You were hurt, you needed treatment, and I just did what I thought needed to be done to make sure you got it. I'm sorry that you had to be knocked out, but I thought that if you weren't you'd ignore it and maybe hurt yourself further. You needed to rest now, while you had the chance, because, Erik, I don't...I don't..." she swallowed, and Erik knew that these words were costing her something. For so long, Charles had been hers and only hers, hers to take care of and by whom to be taken care of. "I don't know what I'm doing. And Charles...Charles is..." 

Erik sat down heavily, reeling. He'd have words with Raven later, when they were safe, but now was the time to focus on other things. The anger was not as important as it had been in the past. There was non of Schmidt's unholy glee in Raven's trembling mouth, her damp eyes. "He's still in surgery?" he whispered. "Seven _hours_?" His mind stuttered over the fact and a mix of fear over how long he'd been sleeping and anxiety over Charles and panic over their safety and a thousand other problems descended down on him. Erik tried to keep his breathing deep and even, but time and again he found himself returning to the choked way Raven had said, "seven hours". He'd probably already suffered more in his lifetime than Charles ever would, and bore the marks to prove it, but his injuries had almost exclusively been ones he'd dealt with himself, had been ones he could deal with himself. Everything he'd learned about treating injuries had been trial and error, assuming he treated the wounds at all. There had always been somewhere else to go, someone else to track down, some time to do it later. Charles, though, was so woefully unprepared for anything like true danger, and so out of his depth. 

Raven looked away, and nodded. "His back," she croaked. She wiped at her face a little, expression twisting up. 

Erik's mouth went dry, and his heart skipped a beat and sent an ache spreading across his chest. It was a visceral panic that blotted out his earlier rage. "From the bullet." The bullet that had been dropped amongst the metal tools that Hank had outfitted his suit with, the one that started screaming at his senses the minute he thought of it. The bullet that MacTaggert had shot. He reflexively reached out, trying to find it, pinpointing it amongst the rest of his suit in the far corner of the room. 

"Until he gets out of surgery, there's nothing we can do," Raven was saying, eyes staring off towards the opposite wall. Erik took the opportunity to bring the bullet to him, clenching it in his fist. "It was better that you rest now. Sean's arm is broken, Alex's knee is twisted up and his chest is covered in chemical burns, and Hank's got a cracked rib and four bruised ones, plus a concussion. Not to mention everyone's cuts and bruises. Alex...and M—I, we've been keeping an eye on things. I know it's not safe here, you know, so I wasn't just going to let them do whatever," she added. Her voice almost sounded normal again, and it was like the mask she'd pasted over her own natural hue: a lie. She cleared her throat a little, still not looking at him, and Erik didn't pretend that he wanted to know what was going on behind those gold eyes. He was having enough trouble controlling his own roiling emotions. 

"So now what?" Raven inquired with false cheer. It grated on Erik's nerves, but he quelled it. He and Charles had never really discussed the reality that they might face after Cuba; at least, not if one considered the conversation usually consisting of short phrases and loaded glances and so many unspoken words. No matter the circumstances of the way things ended in Cuba, there had never been any thought of abandoning these children to the larger world, not if either of them could help it. Despite his own misgivings, Erik couldn't leave them. He would have to be dead before that happened. 

He bowed his head, allowing himself to feel one more terrifying moment of fear and uncertainty and pain. Then slowly, methodically, he made sure that he pushed them away, setting them aside so he could focus. There were there, but they no longer dominated his thoughts, and it gave him a precious moment to think. He looked up, grim-faced, and asked, "Where's Angel?" 

Azazel and Riptide were several doors down, according to Raven's instructions, and Erik paused at the open door and listened as the pair of them spoke to one another in quiet voices, a conglomeration of Russian, Spanish, and some sort of rhythmic, almost music sounding language. Danish, perhaps? Erik had no idea. It didn't quite sound like any language he knew. He listened for a second or two, mystified by how they could possibly understand one another. Riptide was wearing a loose shirt and baggy trousers, a far departure from the tailored suits and crisp air that the man had worn every time that Erik had seen him previously. Not that Erik had any place from which to speak—he was currently clothed in a worn button-down shirt and sweatpants that Raven had brought to him, neither of which were quite long enough for his frame and were probably obtained dubiously. 

Riptide met Erik's stare almost balefully, but his eyes were slightly unfocused. Definitely a concussion, then; in all honesty, Erik knew that most of them were probably nursing head injures of some level or another. If not actual concussions, then certainly throbbing headaches from Charles'...whatever that had been. Erik certainly had one despite having spent several hours asleep, albeit a drug-induced slumber. Riptide lifted his chin, and then tried to keep from flinching when the motion tugged on his injuries. Erik was half-surprised that the crushing weight of all that metal being carelessly yanked on top of him hadn't killed him outright. Perhaps he had a little more strength to him than first appeared. 

Azazel finished speaking and gestured for Erik to come in, pausing in unwrapping the dressing that was across one shoulder and his upper chest. They were sitting in a reasonably sized room with several chairs and books laid out nearby, and a place in the far corner demarked by a white curtain; the metal of the machinery soothed him, thrumming against his senses. Presumably, Angel was behind it. Azazel removed the last of the bandage, revealing a series of five ragged and still weeping puncture wounds that roughly followed the curve of a hand. Or paw, as the case may be. When he saw Erik glance at them, Azazel murmured, "Your beast-man has a good grip." 

Erik couldn't tell what Azazel thought of that fact, so he simply bared teeth. "Yes, he does." 

Azazel's eyes glittered with something that might have been humor. Discarding the bandage on the table, he began redressing the wound himself, carefully covering the wounds once more and wrapping them securely. Erik patiently waited for him to finish, leaning on the edge of the door and watching Azazel's movements. 

"That doesn't hurt?" Erik couldn't help asking once Azazel was done. 

Azazel gave half a shrug. "A very good local anesthetic. The rest of the pain I deal with." As usual, his words were clipped and accented, but his eyes were too intelligent for Erik to ever underestimate him and believe that a dearth of words meant lack of cunning. He tapped his head. "Nothing more, because of concussion. Something else to thank your beast-man for." Azazel's demonic appearance was only accentuated by his smile. "I don't remember him, at the facility. Where did you get him?" 

"Don't try to return the favor," Erik warned and then added, "You met him. Hank," he explained shortly. "Tall, with the glasses." 

Azazel squinted a little as though trying to recall the memory. "Is an improvement," he said when he finally realized to whom Erik was referring, and shrugged again. 

Erik had said the same thing only hours earlier, but something about their uneasy truce kept Erik from agreeing with Azazel. Instead, he gave a half-smile, neither confirming nor denying the statement. He'd seen Charles use it a few times, when he wasn't about to disagree with Erik but wasn't going to be caught in a lie, either. Erik could only hope he displayed a portion of the enigmatic certainty that Charles had displayed at those times. So instead, he changed the subject. 

"Is Angel awake?" 

The other two stiffened, subtly shifting their bodies so that if needs must, they could stand against him, blocking his access to Angel. A part of Erik relaxed at that, letting out the smallest sigh, relieved that they were still united even without Schmidt's or even Frost's reigns forcing them to be civil to one another. He'd heard the way Schmidt had chastised Frost for knocking him out of the boat, voice faux honey-sweet, but it seemed that they had taken his words about protecting their fellow mutants to heart and were prepared to defend her. It would make what he was about to ask them so much easier. 

"She is resting," Riptide said quietly, dangerously. 

Erik nodded, keeping his stance relaxed. "I just want to talk to her. And you—all of you, really." 

They regarded him with no small amount of suspicion, but Riptide finally relented and got up to see if Angel was awake. He heard several things that could have only been bitten off curses and several other generally unsavory opinions on his character, his family and his life choices. He didn't so much as bat an eyelash; he'd heard far worse from people who mattered far more. Instead, his limbs protesting, he sank into a spare chair as though he belonged there, waiting for the others to re-emerge. 

When they finally did so, Erik couldn't help the way he inhaled sharply. Angel looked wrecked, her skin still pale, deep and dark circles under her eyes, almost her entire upper torso swathed in bandages. He wanted to ask what exactly had happened to her, but bit off the words before they could escape. It wasn't yet any of his business, but he hoped that was about to change. Instead he watched as she slowly walked over. She needed Riptide's support to get herself across the room, but Erik let her come. Her eyes were almost fever-bright, challenging his gaze, rather than the drug-hazed ones he'd expected. He felt his respect for her grow, for all she'd taken Schmidt's side in the first place; she would not let herself remain prone in bed, would not let him talk at her. She seated herself opposite him with only a modicum of her usual grace. "What do you want?" The words were less a demand and more of a tired request, as though she was too weary to be so much as speaking with him. 

"We're going to be leaving as soon as Charles can be moved," Erik told them flatly. Though he hadn't mentioned this to more than Raven, Erik couldn't see the others objecting. While the people in the facility hadn't done anything either covert or overt to harm them as far as Erik could tell, he didn't trust them not to do so at the earliest opportunity, possibly at the behest of the very people in this room. "I don't know where we're going, but this facility isn't going to be standing at the end of it. I want you to come with us. All of us, together. I—" 

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Angel interrupted before he could make his case. She glowered at him, eyes dark, completely and utterly belligerent. "I've heard this load of bullshit before. Janos, Azazel—they can make their own decisions. But I'm _not_ going with you." 

He paused, thrown off. Words had never been his forte, and he stared at her for a second in surprise, mouth open. "Why?" he questioned, confused. He'd expected he'd be forced to try and persuade them, but he hadn't expected this flat, unequivocal refusal. "You must know we are the future, that the humans aren't going to rest until they've hunted us down. You were at the beach. If I hadn't stopped those missiles, we'd have all been dead. We need to make a stand now, start fighting back before they realize what we're doing. We should be doing that together— _standing_ together." 

Angel looked at him a sardonically. "I've tried that whole standing together for the future of mutant-kind thing. If you recall, it didn't work out so well." She touched her shoulder. She hadn't bled through the bandages, but Erik had received burn wounds of his own and knew what they felt like. He was torn, caught between wanting to praise Alex for his excellent aim and strength under pressure, for using his mutation to defend Sean and in the same breath wanted to determine whether Angel's wing would be okay. 

Something of it must have shown on his face; it was strange. Normally he was a master of controlling his expression—it was Charles who wore his heart on his sleeve. In this place though, raw and bruised and anxious, his poker face had long since been shattered. "I'm not going to lose the arm, or anything like that," Angel told him briskly, but not without bite, rolling her eyes. "And if I'm lucky, I'm not going to need a graft. If I'm lucky. That's what war gets you—that and a walk on a road to hell paved with good intentions, evidently. I'm just lucky that whatever, uh, Havok did—" the use of Alex's code name didn't escape Erik, "—to my wings, when I," she twirled her uninjured hand expressively, "pulled them back into me, or whatever, it changed it. I was burned and stuff, but I didn't have any holes in me or anything. I don't think I'm going to be flying any time soon, though." How she felt about all that, Erik couldn't tell. Erik couldn't imagine being robbed of his powers, of being directionally blind, of never being able to defend himself, of being powerless. 

Of being human. 

"Besides," she continued in a quieter voice, "I don't think they want to see me any more than I want to see them." Angel didn't have to clarify who she meant. 

Erik knew she was right, of course, but the children probably felt the same way about Riptide—or Janos, as Angel had called him—and Azazel, too. That didn't change Erik's feelings; the threesome had the potential to be powerful allies in the oncoming war, regardless of what they'd done for Schmidt, under his command. They already had the most important thing in common—they were mutants, and as evidenced by their allegiance to Schmidt, they believed that mutants were the superior race. "So? I'm asking you, Angel. Stay with us and protect your family. Help us." 

Angel was already shaking her head, those dark eyes opaque, and Erik wondered what was going through her head. Under different circumstances Erik could find himself making a similar decision. There had to be some way of convincing her to see reason, some way for her to see that she was better off with people to protect her. Charles was the one with the silver tongue, not him, and as on the beach he found himself wishing fiercely that he knew how to use words as the other man did, to paint possibilities, no matter how ridiculous or idealistic, in bright swatches of color across the sky. 

"I will go with Angel," Riptide announced quietly. Both Erik and Angel looked at him with shock, their protests mounting on one another. He waited them out, waiting for the words to dissipate, and then shrugged. "Thank you, but no." Like Angel, he didn't seem particularly interested in explaining his decisions, a fact that frustrated Erik more than it ought to. If he knew their arguments, he could exploit their weak points, make them see reason. With this, their decisions already made and ringing in the air, solid as stone, he found himself struggling to figure out what to do next. He wanted to forcibly drag them along with him, to shake them until whatever idiocy had them in its hold was rattled right out of their brain. 

"And you?" Erik spat at Azazel with more heat than he'd intended to. "Are you going to run off as well?" 

Azazel's eyes glimmered with something very much like curiosity and mirth. Erik found himself remembering the look in the other man's eyes when Erik had said thank you for taking them to the hospital, and some of the irritation subsided. He gazed at his companions contemplatively for a moment before shaking his head. "No, I think not. I will travel with you, for now." His gaze shifted to his allies, "My apologies, but this is where we part ways for now." 

Erik blinked, taken aback and spoke before Angel or Janos managed to formulate a response. "Really?" he blurted awkwardly before he caught himself. "Why?" he found himself asking again. 

Azazel just leaned back, smug, and gave him a sly little grin. "Call it a sense of morbid curiosity." He rolled the r's richly, accent thick on the words. 

"Morbid curiosity?" Erik parroted; despite his best efforts, he had no idea what the demonesque mutant might be thinking. Azazel shrugged. Erik waited for him to say something, but no words were forthcoming. Erik sighed and then turned back to Angel and Riptide, who watched him carefully, still distrusting of Erik and his actions. Erik ignored it. "We'll give you a way to contact us, should you ever need to. For anything." In that, at least, it was easy to read the sincerity with which Erik spoke. 

Whether they'd actually ever use it was another matter entirely. "I'll be out of your hair in a day or two. There's not much for me to do, except to keep it clean and wrapped until it heals," Angel muttered. Then, a little more shyly, she looked to Riptide. Erik barely held back a snort at their behavior, quietly furious at the way they were ready to run off after this all, ready to play human, as though their gifts could be ignored, as if the humans wouldn't turn on them the first moment they slipped up. They'd been so ready to help the mutant cause that they'd thrown their lot in with someone like Schmidt, whose methods were brutal at the very least and now they were willing to let all of that go. Words climbed up his throat, and Erik resolutely kept his mouth shut. He would gain nothing by pressing his point with them at the moment. 

"I'm fine," Riptide assured her. He glanced at Erik, mouth twisting a little, but didn't say anything more. Erik closed his eyes, fury building. "I go when you do." 

Erik stood then, more briskly than he should have, and gave them a brief farewell as he was officially out of patience with the entire affair. "Please let me know before you leave," he said, the polite tones unfamiliar and stilted to his ears. Angel waved him off with his free hand; a dismissal that crawled under Erik's skin and made his hair stand on end. It seemed the matter, as far as they were all concerned, was closed. 

Before he did something foolish, Erik tried to leave the room. He made it to the doorway before Azazel's rich voice asked, "And what of the human?" It was an echo of the sentiment he voiced earlier, and this time there was a little more weight behind it. 

He stopped and then smiled coldly at Azazel over his shoulder. "I'm going to deal with the matter right now." 

That seemed to satisfy Azazel, and the man disappeared from the room in a burst of red smoke that had Riptide calling up a little breeze to whisk it out of the room before slipping an arm around Angel's waist and leading her back to her bed. Erik caught himself staring at the two figures, the lowest edge of the tattoos that transformed into Angel's wings barely visible beneath the bandages, and the complicated knot that had been sitting in his chest since Charles had been injured grew. 

Erik let out a little breath, shook his head, and went to talk to the human who'd shot Charles. 

He stretched out his senses, looking for the one thing he knew MacTaggert would be wearing. Her dog tags. Erik strode down the hall purposefully, back straight and eyes dark. He followed his senses down the corridor and around the corner, focusing in on a door two down from the one that he'd awoken in, and pulling it off its hinges with a squealing noise that would have awoken the dead. Erik was expecting it, and it raised the fine hair's on the back of his neck; for the unsuspecting, it would be a hundred times worse. Let MacTaggert be afraid. 

She'd been asleep before his entrance, curled uncomfortably in a hard plastic chair at the foot of Sean's bed, but at the sound of the door being ripped off its hinged, she jerked in surprise. Sean, at least, was awake and sitting with a radio in his lap, one arm in a cast but otherwise looking well; at Erik's entrance, his mouth merely dropped open as his eyes went wide. When Erik tossed the door into the opposite wall, not quite hard enough to send it through, but enough that the sound of shattering plaster, wood and concrete startled MacTaggert awake. She started to her feet, nearly falling to the ground when her legs refused to support her, poor circulation crippling her. Erik stalked inside, his finely-honed and lethal instincts all on edge. 

"Erik?" Sean gasped at the same moment that Hank came running in, growling low in his throat at the perceived threat. 

MacTaggert chimed in at the same time, "What are you doing?" as she regained her feet, rubbing at her eyes. 

"Out," Erik ordered Hank and Sean softly, dangerously, leaving no room for protests. He didn't want to use his powers to force their hand, but he would if he had to. Sean glanced between MacTaggert and Erik, mouth pinched. Hank came to stand by Sean's side; Alex came in through the ruined doorway a beat later, bare chest covered in bandages and sweatpants slung low on his hips, moving gingerly past Erik to stand with the others. As he watched Alex's careful movements, he also caught sight of Raven and, somewhat unsurprisingly, given what he'd said, Azazel, both of whom were standing almost directly behind him in the doorway. Azazel gave him another little grin, eyes unreadable as he stared past Erik at Moira. 

"Erik?" Sean said again, sounding nervous. "What's happening?" 

Keeping his eyes locked on MacTaggert's, Erik murmured softly. "This isn't something that concerns you." 

Hank snorted, a bestial sound. "Since when is that true?" he challenged, and Erik's hackles raised. "We were all there on that beach." His eyes slid briefly even to Azazel, and though his lip lifted away from dangerous teeth, he didn't make a move in Azazel's direction, not yet. Alex shifted forward a little, ready to get in between the CIA agent and their de-facto leader, while Sean sucked in a deep breath, the same as cocking a gun in anyone else. Only when his friends had done both those things did Hank ask, in clipped tones that only had a passing nod with politeness, "What do you want with Moira?" 

Erik knew they thought he was dangerous, a wild card, but was trusted in spite of that. They hadn't been there to see how Erik had been practically half-feral when Charles pulled him from the water, hadn't fully understood Erik's razor sharp will, hadn't been privy to the late night conversations in which he and Charles clashed time in again over everything from training styles to philosophies. 

They hadn't heard Charles tell him killing Schmidt wouldn't bring him peace. 

They hadn't heard Erik telling him peace was never an option. 

It still wasn't, as far as Erik could tell. 

Yet he still didn't want to wreck their illusions of him, what little good favor of theirs he might still have. He'd been there too, as invested in watching them grow and learn as Charles had been; even more vested in making sure they accepted themselves and saw their mutations for the powerful wonders that they were. 

"Hank, Sean, Alex. Raven. _Leave_ ," he implored, fingers outstretched but not yet calling out for the rich metal that surrounded him. He needed to deal with MacTaggert, needed to guarantee that she wouldn't be telling the CIA anything more, had to know for sure what she'd said already, couldn't risk that MacTaggert was about to betray them all the minute she had the chance. Without Charles, the only way that Erik knew how to get those things was through the kind of torture that the others should never have to see in their entire lives. For all they'd seen Darwin killed, for all he'd told Charles that they _weren't_ children anymore—they still were. They weren't hardened, not the way Erik was, and they wouldn't be willing to do what was necessary yet to protect their race. 

Erik wasn't yet cruel enough to want to inflict it on them. 

MacTaggert's eyes flickered between the younger mutants, grouped together and anxious, and back to Raven and Azazel. Then she took a deep breath and deliberately relaxed her stance, dredging up a smile from somewhere. "You knew this was coming," she said lightly, as though this was just a foolish argument that she and Erik had set to the side until they had the opportunity to come back to it. As though this confrontation didn't matter. "Let Erik and I talk." 

Something in Erik tightened in him as he realized that MacTaggert was no more interested in wrecking their misconceptions about Erik than he himself was. Irritation at her presumption rubbed at his skin like sand, making Erik scowl, the magnetic waves practically pulsing in the air, making the metal around him sing. Her words made Hank catch himself in surprise, however, turning fully to face MacTaggert. "Why?" he demanded. 

MacTaggert gave them a little smile, turning her face briefly to Raven and taking on a touch of sadness. Sitting back down in her chair, she returned her entire attention to Erik once more. "Please," she murmured in a voice that barely carried without giving further explanation, but it was clear in the hardness of her tone that the words weren't meant for Erik even if all of her focus was on him. 

Alex took a deep breath. "Are you sure?" 

"Very." At the command in MacTaggert's voice, the younger mutants straightened and reluctantly filed out. "You too," she added mildly in the direction of Raven and Azazel. They, too, backed away slowly, still gazing at Erik and MacTaggert with trepidation. 

The moment they had stepped through the doorway, Erik pulled back the door that he'd ripped from its hinges, subtly flattening it so that it was wedged thoroughly in the doorway. They'd need Hank to try and remove it, since Alex wouldn't risk shooting uncontrolled plasma beams at it. It wasn't enough, though. Erik reinforced it, then, with all the metal in the room, ripping apart the beds and cabinets in a show of unadulterated strength and finesse that he'd not have managed before he'd met Charles. 

"They're going to be listening as best as they can, you know. They're not stupid. If they've got any sense at all, they've gone to the next room over instead of hovering around the door." She gave him a tight little smile. "Even the walls have ears, right?" She seated herself again, straight-backed and regal, looking for all the world like she was in a meeting with one of her idiotic supervisors rather than in danger of losing her life. Still, the fingers that smoothed over the flight suit she was still wearing were shaking too badly for Erik's keen eyes to miss. "So where would you like to begin? By threatening me? We both know that you can't afford to kill me." 

Erik saw red at that, and he tore a piece off the bed he'd blocked the door with, sending the shard flying towards MacTaggert. A delicate scratch opened up on the side of her neck, and if Erik's control had been a hair less precise, he might have torn open the artery. The shaking in MacTaggert's hands increased, but she was right. He'd reminded himself several times since that moment on the beach of why he couldn't just tear her apart and listen to her screams time and again despite who she worked for, what she'd done. 

Still, it wouldn't do for a weak human to call his bluff. 

"No?" he purred, and he yanked on those dog tags that signified her allegiance, dragging her out of the chair and onto the floor in front of him, manipulating the magnetic fields around the metal to make it heavy, heavier than MacTaggert could handle. He watched, eyes dark as she knelt in front of him, forehead almost pressed to the floor in a mockery of the slavery she'd wished to force his people into. 

Somehow, though, MacTaggert managed to croak, "No," with more security than she deserved. Erik's fingers immediately itched for a gun, for _her_ gun, but that'd been left on the beach, along with the wreckage of the plane and submarine. He snarled something and pulled on the rest of the metal in her suit, shoving her back until she rose up, dangling in midair before he slammed her into the far wall, all of her breath leaving her in a gasp. He kept her pinned there despite her struggles, pinned like the insect she was. 

Her breath came in ragged pants, and there were a few drops of blood rolling down her chin where she'd bitten her lip, but she continued to meet his gaze defiantly. "They won't stay, if you kill me. Alex, Hank, Sean—" so she'd seen it too, seen the way Raven's face had lit up with a painful hope when he'd described the world he wanted to build with them, one where no one had to be ashamed of who they were, "—you saw their faces." She drew in a deep breath, and winced a little. Erik's expression didn't change. "They'll stop you, if they think they need to, and you can't afford to lose their support." 

MacTaggert had always been too clever and sharp by half, and it didn't take a genius to realize that with Charles currently out of commission, Erik was trying to hold things together as best as he was able. Something like this would splinter the already rag-tag group, shattering any chance the mutant populace had of making a stand. Bad enough that Erik had invited their enemies along, never mind the fact that Charles might very well have been dead without Azazel's interference; to kill MacTaggert would throw more doubt on Alex, Sean and Hank's opinions of Erik. That was without even considering the fact that a dead CIA agent couldn't tell them what she knew, any more than she could be used as leverage against the government. MacTaggert had used the time that Erik had been otherwise occupied to turn her mind to the various possibilities, and Erik would have to be an idiot to kill her—and people who came within inches of killing Klaus Schmidt were not stupid. 

He'd been outmaneuvered, _outflanked_ by a human. 

MacTaggert's dark eyes were opaque as she added, "Charles would never forgive you, either." 

Erik's instinctive rage bypassed all of his higher cognitive function, and he was spitting venomous curses at her, fingers out and twisting the dog tags around her neck, cutting off her air. MacTaggert made a choking noise, fingernails scraping her skin raw as they tried to get beneath the chain. Erik noted only vaguely that she was opening the wounds from the last time he'd done this, that the purpling bruise already present was darkening beneath the chain's grip. 

"How _dare_ you," he growled, anger ripping at his words. "You're the reason he was shot, you're the reason he's in surgery right now, you're the reason he _could have died_." He wrenched the tags even deeper, and the skin turned scarlet, beads of blood welling up where Moira had scratched her own skin open in her effort to pry Erik's chosen weapon away from her skin. "You have _no right_ to talk about what Charles would do. As if someone like you could _dream_ of what goes on in that man's head—" and Erik didn't give voice to the fear and hope that he had no better of a grasp of Charles, of his smiles and laughter and the quiet contemplation he'd viewed Erik with sometimes, the contemplation that made Erik feel hot all over, that made him feel like his skin was too sizes too small and his entire being was on display for Charles' too-blue eyes, "—as if you had any hope of _understanding_ —" 

Hank barreled through the wall, crashing into Erik's side and for a single, terrifying moment, Erik was back on the beach, Charles' solid weight pressing against his own, the other man's frantic eyes and his straining body, gazing at Erik as though Erik had utterly shattered him. Hank's growl reverberated throughout Erik's entire body, and he called a bedpost from across the room, throwing Hank's bulk off him. It was instinct more than seeing Sean take in a breath that had him reacting; either way, he barely managed to put up a shield to deflect Sean's sonic waves. With one hand, he sent strips of metal flying, pinning Hank against the wall and covering Sean's mouth, taking his two attackers out of play for at least the moment. That left only Alex, who gazed at him warily, stepping in front of his bound friends, the air around him shimmering slightly with red sparks as he started to call forth his powers without going all the way. 

Whatever any of them might have said or done was disrupted when MacTaggert started coughing, Erik having instinctively let go of the chain he'd been suffocating her with in order to deal with the more pressing threat. Sitting back on her heels, she stared up at him, eyes determined and bright and challenging even now. In a voice of broken glass, she rasped, "I fired that bullet. You made sure it got there." 

Erik gazed at her, empty and trembling, breath coming in harsh gasps. He gestured with a hand and MacTaggert's dog tags shifted slowly, the chain thickening and pulling up closer to her throat. 

"Erik," Alex muttered warningly, the red sparks beginning to coalesce, but the metallokinetic ignored him. 

Lashes fluttering, Erik made the metal bend to his will, coaxing it lightly into its new form. His sense of the metal shivered in the air, a thin, high note that scraped against his skin. He forced it, working the metal until a collar about half an inch wide rested at the base of MacTaggert's neck, just lose enough that she could fit a finger underneath it. It was a more delicate use of his powers than he'd done in what seemed like years but had only been a day or two; Charles had delighted in pushing him to his limits in a variety of different ways. 

The thought of Charles made Erik's chest ache even as he stared down at MacTaggert's exhausted body and felt the weariness settle down into his bones as his shoulders slumped. 

"You get to take her of her," he said in a voice he barely recognized as his own, releasing Hank and Sean from their bonds. Alex relaxed his stance slightly. Raven and Azazel were standing on the far side of the hole Hank had created, Raven's hands fisted tightly and Azazel's smirk showing teeth. He cast a glance down at the CIA agent and said in that same dull voice, "With that I'll be able to sense you. Don't try to break it. Don't try to run. You won't like what happens." She was intelligent enough that he'd let her fill in the blanks. 

The room was silent as his fingers twitched and he threw the metal out of his path, sending it crashing through the opposite wall with barely a thought. 

Erik wanted to see Charles.


	5. The Uncertain Future

_He knew about it long before they ever spoke to him, once he was truly awake and aware. It blazed in their minds, and he stole it from them without ever realizing it, filching the truth from their tapestry of half-lies and meaningless comforts and murmurings of, “The doctor will be in soon, dear. He'll explain everything“ and “Just checking up on you“ from the nurses._

_It was a constant undertone to their thoughts,_ What a shame, he seems like such a nice boy, _and,_ Crippled for the rest of life, such a waste, _and,_ I wonder who will end up with the money after he dies—he's not married, and I can't imagine any woman sticking around with this, no matter how rich he is. Who would want to put up with all that? 

_Charles knew the verdict long before the doctor came around to visit him. He went through all the right motions, nodding dully as the doctor spoke about, “check to see how the bruising goes down,“ and “not very good,“ and “but no fever or infection developing.“ The words didn't matter, not really._

_Through it all Charles felt the man's thoughts like live wires, felt every word strike home._

_—hungry, but I need to get a cup of coffee. Fuck, he's got no real hope to go on. A shattered L4, coming in almost ten hours after being shot? Especially when he couldn't feel his legs almost immediately after receiving the injury? Oh, Christine's got a nice ass. The doctor's eyes flickered over the nurse who passed by, mouth twitching upwards. The nurse barely paused in her steps, and the doctor let out a little breath._ Well, he might recover some sensation if we're careful, and he's wealthy enough that we need to keep him happy—these old-style rich-types either sue you for everything you've got or show you a token of their appreciation in the form of more zeros than I've ever seen on a check before. Who knows, if I play my cards right— 

_“Thank you,“ Charles interrupted when he could no longer stand the influx of vague irritation, disinterest, anxiety and boredom that blazed against his raw mind. “May I just have a few moments?“_

_The upwelling of pity was like a slap to the face. “Of course,“ the doctor agreed graciously. If Charles hadn't known what the man was thinking, he might have even believed the polite façade was real. “When you're ready, press the call button there, and a nurse will come help you with whatever you need.“ The doctor smiled then, indulgent. “Depending on how you feel afterwards, I understand you have some people very anxious to see you awake. Well, more awake,“ he amended, because high on morphine and various other drugs could hardly be counted as properly conscious. The doctor helped raise the bed a little more, so Charles' upper body was better supported, the help unasked for._

_Charles dredged up a smile from somewhere, and he must be getting reasonably good at pulling himself together while falling to pieces because the doctor just gave him a quick little nod and left the telepath to his own devices._

_As soon as he was gone, Charles pulled back the covers. It was like gazing at a stranger's legs, soft and pale with darker hair covering his skin. Muscular, more so than might otherwise be expected of a professor, but not overly so. He'd enjoyed running in the past, but his thesis had eaten up more time than he'd expected; he kept meaning to get back into it but never seemed to manage the time until they'd returned to the mansion in Westchester for training. Feet that had always been on the slightly smaller side, and that cut on his toe where he'd stubbed it trying to undress in his room after one drink to many with—with him. With Erik. It was utterly surreal, didn't feel like it was happening, couldn't be happening. The enormity of it pressed in on him, and yet Charles knew this wasn't even the single most terrifying and horrifying moment of his life._

_Charles knew in that moment that all the worst things that were to come would forever be held against that moment on the beach._

_Thoughts of Erik engulfed him as he poked at the deadened skin, something like a sob catching between his tongue and his teeth, a little broken sound. He wrapped one arm around his waist, the other covering his face as he attempted to breathe around the knot in his chest that was making his entire body shake. Thoughtlessly, Charles tried to twist and grab the blanket in an effort to cover his legs, the sense of defeat and agony warring with the shout of,_ this isn't happening, this isn't happening! _that was running on repeat in the back of his mind._

_He couldn't reach it._

_It should have been the work of a heartbeat to pull the blanket back over him, but his leg muscles refused to respond the way they should, refused to let him counterbalance his body the right way, refused to shift to accommodate his stretching, refused to anchor and support him. He was forced to lurch forward awkwardly in order to grasp even one corner of the sheet and pull it back over the nerveless legs._

I can't...I can't feel my legs. I can't feel my legs. I can't feel my legs. 

_The overwhelming knowledge of what he was about to face—being chained to a chair and locked in battle and failure and the complete reorganization of everything he was, everything he could have been, to compensate for this—made Charles gaze at the opposite wall for a long time._

I can't feel my legs. 

_He didn't bother crying._

~*~ 

Erik didn't move, even when they entered the eleventh hour of Charles' surgery and the third hour of Erik's vigil. 

He'd spent entire days like this, on edge and waiting for the single sign that would give his prey away, give him the opening that he needed. Yet this, Charles' open and bloody form, had Erik's knuckles going white around the second cup of coffee that Raven had brought him; she'd left again, taking one look at Charles and exhaling in a slow, quavering breath before escaping outside once more, eyes over bright. Erik's shoulders were tight with tension, knotted and strained as he gazed down at the surgeons, but despite Charles' prone body, Erik couldn't make himself leave. 

Raven couldn't bear to see Charles like this, but Erik couldn't bear anything less. 

He finished off the last of his coffee without ever tasting it, intending to drain the cup dry, only to have it drop from nerveless fingers as the surgeons finally began to close Charles' lower back up, cleaning the area. The last dredges of coffee splattered against the floor, but Erik never looked away from the operating table. Within moments, one of the surgeons began the quick but careful stitches across the wound they'd cut in his lower back, a relatively small wound for the amount of blood that seemed to have spread across the pale expanse of skin. Erik pressed close to the observation window, craning his neck in an effort to see better, but he couldn't manage quite the right angle. 

A doctor stepped in from the doors to his left and Erik found himself peering at a woman in her late thirties. She looked exhausted, the make-up she'd applied sometime before beginning her work on Charles having long since been smeared off, exposing the dark circles beneath her eyes. The eyes in question were nevertheless sharp and intelligent, and of a golden color that reminded Erik of Raven's eyes. 

It's a comparison made all the more apt when Raven followed the doctor in, those selfsame amber eyes searching out Erik over the crest of the woman's shoulders. She smiled at him, in what was beginning to become a frighteningly familiar flash of white-on-blue, clouds in the sky. Erik shook the notion from his head, eyes feeling grainy from dry sand and wind and dirt as much as from the long hours spent watching over Charles. He rubbed at them briefly, and wondered if he looked worse than the doctor did. 

"You must be Erik," she said by way of greeting. Her voice was almost delicate but despite the low tone it didn't lack in strength, and Erik caught himself leaning closer, not out of an interest, but just to make sure he could actually make out was she was saying. "Of course, I've already met Raven. I'm Doctor Amelia Wright. Would you care to sit down?" she gestured at the chairs that had been so recently abandoned. 

Erik should his head, mute with the possibilities that were overwhelming him. Raven came to stand by his side, face preternaturally still, looking like some otherworldly goddess ready to bring a season of raining fire upon this place if she didn't get the answers she was looking for. Doctor Wright took one look at their unified front and treated them to a tiny, brief, thin smile. 

"I'm going to keep it short for now, until we know more. The bullet never actually penetrated the suit, which is good, but almost immediately we detected major swelling in the area and bruising; because of the area, we were worried about internal bleeding and damage to Xavier's spine so we decided to take a closer look in the OR. It impacted his L4 primarily, which is a vertebrae in the lower part of the small of one's back. The impact caused breakage of the bone in three places, though the facture was an incomplete in all three cases, meaning that it wasn't completely broken, which is very good as there spinal cord wasn't completely severed. The spine stayed more or less in place and we believe we were able to set the bone without any major difficulty; we implanted a Harrington rod that will hopefully help spinal fusion and try and minimize further injury. The L3 also looked tender, and we picked out a few silvers of a bone fragment that looked to be from the L4 and L3 before they could do any damage. That's the good news." 

"That's the _good_ news?" Erik hissed, aghast at the description and completely without the ability to formulate a response. "Charles' _back_ is broken. That's...that's..." 

There were images that Erik had, of some of the experiments that Schmidt had performed on the others who were not as special as he was and brought Erik in to observe. Of the damage that was done to so many people in the camps. The callousness with which the few who were not gased were used and discarded, thrown in the trash practically still bleeding the second they outlived their usefulness. Their only hope was to try and recover completely in those cesspools, because their only other option was death; most chose death, because it was kinder. Hitler, Schmidt, anyone involved in the camps had no need for the lame any more than they had a need for the Jews or the Romani or fairies that they tracked down—rather, they had a vested interest in keeping them from procreating and _contaminating_ the gene pool—Erik had to turn aside then, and walk very quickly to the nearest trash can, where he vomited up all of the coffee he'd drunk over the past few hours, the raw taste of it making him gag on principle. 

He tried to keep from throwing up bile, knowing it would only aggravate his throat and nausea further, the acid tearing up sensitive skin. He couldn't stop picturing it, though. Charles, broken beyond repair, crippled and defenseless, _unable to run away if they came for him, trapped, he had to get them out of here now before the others knew, because if this got out, that Charles couldn't escape, it would be all Erik's fault because Charles would watch them come with those bright blue eyes and the raised chin as they towered over him and broke the vivacious, brilliant mind behind the body with their needles and knives and the crooning of their voices._

Erik's entire body was shaking, and it took him long moments before he could make the metal around him stop straining for him, trying to touch him as though they could make him feel better. He reigned in his power, gripping it by force and shoving it out of reach. The room stopped quaking, stopped trying to tear itself apart in an effort to reach him. He spit casually to get the taste out of his mouth, wiping his lips with the back of one hand and the sweat that beaded at his temples with the other. 

Raven and Doctor Wright watched him, the doctor looking too sympathetic for Erik's taste and Raven looking too calm. They stood motionless as he came back over, and Erik could very nearly sense the way their blood iron picked up speed. He gestured abruptly for the woman to continue and she did so without pause, saying, "However, as you may have guessed, a variety of different problems arise when one's back is broken." If anything, Doctor Wright sounded a touch wry and weary in equal parts. "You need to understand that with the position of the injury, paralysis from the injury downwards is a real possibility, even if we didn't see any severing." 

She met each of their eyes squarely, seeing the horrified comprehension in both their faces. "At the very least, he's not going to be so much as sitting up for a few weeks. We've currently got him on medication for his back, various painkillers and some drugs we're hoping will reduce the swelling. Since you brought him in quickly after injury, we have relatively high hopes for what we were able to do. In these situations, the faster it's examined, the better. It might mean the difference between a full recovery and never walking again." At their eagerness at the words, "full recovery," Doctor Wright held up a hand. "We're not going to know anything for sure, however, until he's started to heal and that swelling goes down. We'll also know more once we bring him out of sedation in a few days. We want to give his body some time to recover. That will also give Doctor Cooper the opportunity to take a look at his injury as it starts to heal." 

Erik looked at her, horrified. "You're going to open him up again?" This was too much, too much to be borne. The bullet was a hundred thousand kilogram weight in his pocket, heavier than any submarine; far too heavy to ever lift. What had Charles been robbed of, on that beach? What had MacTaggert done to him? 

Doctor Wright's eyes opened wide, and she shook her head. "No, no, of course not!" she hastened to reassure the other man. "No, you have you understand...it's a delicate wound, and the less interference from medicine, the better for Doctor Cooper's skills, so we have to wait for some of the swelling to go down, wait to see how his back begins to heal." When Erik continued to look blank, she sighed at his ignorance, as though he should have already known this. Of course, considering they had tacitly allowed the doctors to assume they were here under Schmidt's orders, Erik really should have known what she was talking about, but all her could do was stare at her and await the explanation. The grittiness in his eyes increased and he rubbed at them again. Damn stinging was making it difficult to see. "Doctor Cooper's talent is for healing, though she's never come close to attempting anything this major. She's probably not going to be able to do much." The words carried a heavy tone of warning to them. 

Raven put up a hand to stop her, sounding confused and anxious. "What are you talking about?" she ground out, giving voice to Erik's own frustrations. She crossed her arms across her chest, looking mulish and silently demanding answers. 

Doctor Wright gave the both of them an odd look, squinting at them slightly. The hair on the back of Erik's neck raised and he instinctively shifted, searching out any and all metal on the doctor's person that he might be able to make use of. After a moment of tension, Doctor Wright began to speak hesitantly, like she wasn't sure if she should actually be revealing this. "Doctor Cooper's...skill, if you will, is healing—within limits, that is. A paper cut might only be the work of a few moments for her, but something like this is going to take hours of work, and might not do much good in the long run. Spine injuries are...tricky," Doctor Wright explained without meeting either of their eyes, and the understatement had Erik gritting his teeth. "We still don't fully understand exactly how to deal with the damage. A lot of nerves, important ones, are in or nearby the spinal column, as are various organs. By some miracle, we don't believe that any of the nerves in Charles' back were severed, but they're without a doubt in a delicate state right now, assuming they are as intact as we hope. She can't just go in, throw a lot of energy at it and hope for the best. A broken bone, for instance, will simply set wrong faster if she works with it unless the bone was in the proper position to begin with. She has to figure out the best way and pace for it to heal, because if she forces it, it will do more harm than good." 

Erik supposed that he shouldn't be surprised, hearing about Cooper's mutation. After all, Azazel, Riptide and Frost couldn't have possibly been the only mutants Schmidt picked up; Frost in particular might not have had a Cerebro-esque machine to help her, but as Schmidt's right-hand woman, Erik knew she was hardly a fool and probably had enough skill to pick out mutants that were nearby. Erik didn't quite know what to say in response to the confirmation of the half-realized thought, his sleep having done little to restore him to any semblance of normalcy, a state that was dragged even further away by his collaring of MacTaggert and the hours spent awaiting Charles' operation to finish. 

Whatever else, his next task was clear. He would have to talk to this Doctor Cooper, then, and whatever other mutants Schmidt had collected, and he'd have to offer them the same choice he'd given Schmidt's other cohorts. Erik closed his eyes for just a moment, allowing himself to wish that Charles was awake, here, now, standing at his side. They may have disagreed on so much, but the protection of their fellow mutants had been critical to them both. He would have given nearly anything to hear Charles' clever logic and brilliant idealism, if only to orient himself, if only to find his lodestone. 

Doctor Wright grimaced a little, interrupting Erik's thoughts, then said in a voice that was quieter than ever and made Erik strain to catch the words, "Xavier's prognosis is...not good. You have to understand, that much damage, no matter how quickly we were able to start helping him, is going to leave its mark. The reality of the situation is that he may very well be confined to a wheel chair for the rest of his life, regardless of anything that we've accomplished here today or Doctor Cooper will be able to do in the future." Her bright eyes were filled with sympathy, and Erik's gaze skittered away. His mind filled with a dull roar that made it difficult to focus, but Erik forced himself to concentrate on what was going on, to think about the situation without dwelling on the details. 

"I want to see him," Raven announced then, a little plaintively. Then, stronger, "I'm his sister. I'm going to see him." She straightened her back, for now at ease in her own skin, daring the doctor to keep her from visiting Charles. 

Doctor Wright's face softened a little, obviously warmed by Raven's desire to see her brother even briefly, regardless of how unalike Charles and Raven appeared. It made something in Erik's chest loosen just a little. "Let me see how he's settling in, and I'll come get you as soon as we're done." She turned that too-sharp gaze on Erik then. "And you?" Erik nodded, not trusting his voice, and she continued, "I'm afraid we can only let one of you in at a time, and not for long. He needs his rest. Come with me." 

She led them down to a room not three doors down from where Charles had been cut open, the clear glass in the door giving Erik a glimpse of several doctors and nurses surrounding Charles' limp form before Doctor Wright turned to them, blocking his view. "I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to ask you to wait out here. I'm sure I'll be out shortly." She turned her words in a gentle but undeniable order, slipping inside and shutting the door firmly behind her. 

Erik sank weakly into the chair that sat outside the door. Normally he'd be pacing, trying to burn off the restless and painful energy that was coiled up in him, threatening to snap, but he wasn't entirely sure that his knees would be able to support him right now. Instead, he watched at Raven stalked up and down the space in front of him, moving with a confidence he hadn't seen until the morning they'd left Charles' mansion. 

He cleared his throat, watching Raven's sharp movements and surprisingly stubborn face, mouth pressed into a tight line. "You should see him. First, I mean." Erik opened his mouth to say more, and the words died, stillborn, on his tongue. "He won't be awake or anything, but he should be..." Erik touched his fingers to his temple in an echo of Charles' familiar gesture, "aware, right? Your mind will be the most familiar. So. You should go." 

Raven caught herself mid-step, coming to a halt in front of Erik, staring down at him. "Yeah, I guess," she murmured, but she sounded so very unsure of herself. Her fingers came up, running through her red hair. The strands naturally kept themselves out of Raven's face, but she seemed to need something to do with her hands. "I just don't...at the beach, his mind was—and that seizure—he just—I don't even know. He can be so dangerous...I just—I'm worried." Raven shook her head. "About...about everything. He's—God, he can be such a sanctimonious asshole, and it's like—you know, you've met him!—he thinks he knows everything, but he's my _brother_ and I just..." she blew out a frustrated breath, looking tired. Erik wondered if she'd taken so much as a nap during that time when he'd been asleep, and his respect for her strength rose. His limit for noticing useful and important details was somewhere around forty-eight hours after extensive practice, and Raven was probably had been awake for just as long without the benefit of Erik's training. He felt vaguely that he ought to tell her to get some rest while she still could, but he could ill afford to sacrifice her support. 

"Whatever else, he'll want to see you," Erik finally told her firmly. "Even if he's asleep." 

Raven rolled her eyes. "Oh, I know that," she said scornfully, waving a hand. Erik bit his lip, biting back sharp words; he didn't know how she could be so easy about it, so nonchalant about seeing him, so assured of Charles' recovery? How could she not understand what he'd look like because of the blow MacTaggert had dealt him? How could she not understand the ramifications of what had happened or the effect it might have on Charles' mind, as much as on his body? She missed the look on his face, staring up at the ceiling, but nevertheless gave a little shrug, biting her lip. "I just want to know that he's alright," she finally managed in a pained whisper. 

What he should have said was, "It's not going to be alright. It's _never_ going to be alright, never again. Charles might have had something taken from him that can't be replaced or fixed, and the mutant race stands on the precipice of war and I don't know what I'm supposed to do to fix it, and neither do you. I don't think we're going to be alright ever again." He opened his mouth to say them, to shove the truth at her and wreck her with it as he'd been wrecked; he knew the feeling of an open wound that leaked blood everywhere, however, and couldn't inflict another one—not here, not now. 

So Erik stood then, and it was so easy to tuck her trembling form against his own, feeling the soft ridges and whorls of her scales against his skin. It was awkward and frightening to press himself this close to Raven, naked to her in a way he hadn't been when he'd found her in his bed, close enough for her to hurt him. His arms were looser than he thought they ought to be around her, considering the way she'd molded herself to him. She didn't cry or anything as far as he could tell, just stood there in the circle of his arms breathing hard for a moment or two before she gently but firmly pushed him away. She didn't look any different; there wasn't so much as a tell-tale redness to her eyes, let alone any other sign of worry or weakness. 

She took in a long breath. "He'll want to see you too, you know," Raven mused aloud, smiling slightly, the tenuous moment broken. She was looking at Erik like she'd stolen her brother's skills and could see him inside and out—all of his reticence, of the old pain, of the fear and the horror and the weariness, like she could cut that complicated knot of everything and nothing to pieces just by gazing at it. Erik's breath caught a little as he looked at her, vivid gold eyes and white teeth against the detailed blue skin. She was smiling at him the same way Charles sometimes would, with warmth and a sly sense of humor. It made Erik's chest ache with the desire to see Charles give him that look again. If Charles—if he couldn't— 

Then, in an abrupt change of topic, before Erik knew what he was supposed to say, she muttered, "And afterwards, I need to get a change of clothing. And a shower. Ugh, I feel so gross." She eyed him. "You too, if the doctors say that your bandages can get wet. We really need to get our hands on some proper clothing for the both of us." 

Erik's mouth twitched a little, but it wasn't a real smile. It seemed like a small worry, in the face of everything else. Besides, he'd gone without on far worse things than cleanliness and clothing, for all he preferred not to. Then, something occurred to him. "We need to figure out where we're going next," Erik commented, and then added softly, "We can't go back to the mansion. It's not safe." They'd moved quickly, too quickly for MacTaggert to pass along the location of the mansion; indeed, Charles seemed to have no interest in reporting the mysterious location they were spiriting everyone off to, but as much as Erik disliked the CIA, they weren't completely idiotic. The Xavier name had a long reach, and the most incompetent of pencil pushers had probably figured out where Charles was headed. 

However, Erik had no way of knowing for sure whether MacTaggert, CIA spies or even one of the children themselves had slipped at one point or another and revealed their location. Things had happened so quickly, once they'd gotten back from Russia, and Charles had handled the majority of their interactions with the CIA on the grounds that, "Erik, my friend, we're trying to show them we're their allies. Allies generally don't threaten harm with the least provocation." Of course, the illegality of Erik's presence in the US was something Charles hadn't wanted being shoved into the CIA's face any more than necessary either, lest they decide that enough was enough and deport Erik with extreme prejudice. 

Raven looked at him, stricken at the idea that they couldn't return to the Xavier family home. "Why not?" she demanded, crossing her arms across her chest and gazing at Erik in a decidedly mulish manner. Before she could make her case, however, or allow Erik to make his, Doctor Wright stepped out. 

"He's settled for now. Which of you is coming in first?" Raven stepped forward at that, hand dropping to Erik's shoulder for just a minute before she walked inside. "Only for a few minutes, mind," Doctor Wright added severely, giving them both cross glances to stop any mounting protests. When she seemed satisfied of their compliance, she waved Raven ahead. 

The quiet thump of the door closing was a death knell. Erik had to stop himself from hyperventilating, focusing on his breathing. He didn't dare let himself get caught up in what might be awaiting him, torturing himself with might-have-beens. It was far better that he see for himself. Despite his intentions, however, Erik's mind couldn't help conjuring the worst possible images, couldn't stop from informing him quite succinctly of all the ways that this could go wrong, that this could be ruined, that this could end in complete and utter disaster. He dropped his head into his hands, vulnerable for just a second. A lump grew in his throat and he fought to swallow down around it, and that knot in his chest twisted, squeezing his lungs and his heart like something alive. 

He took a breath then and composed his face. He couldn't afford to be weak, not in a place like this, when a tentative and untrustworthy truce was the only thing, potentially, that kept them all from being injected with something lethal. The hair on his neck stood straight out at that thought, his skin prickling with gooseflesh. He stared at the opposite wall, trying to find that place of serenity that Charles had spoken of so eloquently, so easily, as though there could be no doubt that it existed—that it more than existed, really, that it had the potential to thrive in Erik. 

Raven came out then, face drawn. She stared at him like he was supposed to have the answers, like he was supposed to know what to say now—but he'd never been the one who comforted, that had always been Charles' job. Heart in his throat, he pushed past Raven without giving her the chance to get a word in edgewise, a brush of warmth against skin suddenly so cold it was almost unfeeling. He shut the door behind him, the doctors having disappeared sometime without his notice, nothing but the bed and a single chair amidst all of the medical paraphernalia. 

It was so _still_. 

Erik made his way forward in hesitant steps, each footfall a thunder of sound in comparison to what lay before him. 

Charles, all but colorless, white even against the whiter sheets, lay prone before him. He was dwarfed by the bed, which had been made to contain someone far larger than him, his face unnaturally still. His lashes were dark smudges against his cheeks, his mouth holding only the barest tint of pink. His breathing, quiet and hardly noticeable, barely rustled the sheets. An IV ran from a stand to the far side of him into his arm, the quiet murmur of his heart monitor the only sound in that yawning silence. He was so very, very small and frail, someone who had once seemed to loom in Erik's vision now demolished and fragmented. 

Erik dropped into the chair as his legs gave out from under him. " _Charles_ ," he whispered. 

He inched forward, lifting up Charles's hand and pressing the back of it against his forehead. The words poured out of him in a rush without him thinking about it. It was better if he refused to consider how easily Charles had made a home under Erik's skin, inside his heart. "Charles, you have to wake up," Erik rasped, eyes feeling overfull but he refused to let any of the dampness trickle down his cheeks. Crying was something to be ashamed of, a weakness, and it had been one of the first things he'd gotten rid of under Schmidt's tender mercies. "You have to because I don't think I can I know what I'm doing. How do you do this every time to me? How do you take every plan I try to make and disrupt something crucial? I..." his voice broke, cracked and shattered and the pieces of it dripped down to the floor. "We were supposed to leave that beach together, side by side, we were supposed to build a world for the future together, to wipe the humans out so that our people would finally be safe. We were supposed to protect everyone, and then _this_ and Charles, I just..." his voice was shaking and it didn't matter if it was a mark of shame, because Erik was crying, had to cry, "Fuck. Fuck you, Charles." He pressed the hand even more tightly, bowing his head further, but Charles never twitched. 

"You have to wake up," Erik repeated fiercely. "I—We need you." 

He wiped furiously at his face and stalked out, uncaring whether he was radiating his rage and pain. Raven practically leaped from the seat when Erik threw the door open and was halfway down the hall when she caught up, forced to take two steps for every one of Erik's to keep up with his stride. "Get Azazel and the others. We need to talk about where we're going next. If the mansion isn't safe, we need to look into other options, places where Charles will be able to recover safely. Places that the CIA, or any government, for that matter, won't know where we are or how to get to us. Tell everyone to meet in my room in an hour." Erik didn't wait for her to respond, just left her gaping in the middle of the hallway. 

Better to bury himself in plans than let himself worry about his grief. 

He terrorized a nurse until she was able to give him the necessary accoutrements for a shower and a shave and emerged less than an thirty minutes later still damp and smelling faintly of the astringent soap that he'd been forced to use. Still he was clean-shaved and wearing a slightly better standard of clothing that he terrified a different doctor into donating to his cause, and felt all the better for it. 

He looked completely at ease as he arrived in the room he'd woken up in, the last one to do so. They'd left him a chair that he slid into, brushing a few still damp strands of hair out of his face. He didn't bother with introductions or pleasantries, preferring to dive into the heart of the matter. "Do you and Charles have another mansion that you just so happen to own?" Erik asked Raven a touch drolly, without expecting a real answer. 

Raven sighed, exasperated. "Even Charles isn't _that_ wealthy," she retorted. "No, besides Westchester and our flat near Oxford, we don't have another place that we can go to, and sorry, but there's no way we're all fitting into that flat." Erik nodded, unsurprised. 

"And no offense, but I seriously doubt that the three of you have any viable options," Erik continued almost before Raven had finished speaking, turning his gaze to Alex, Sean and Hank. Considering the various places from which they'd collected the threesome, he didn't expect much. 

Hank grimaced, but shook his head. He watched Erik with a faint air of distaste and frustration that Erik only managed to pick up on thanks to the way Hank was idly clawing at the wooden chair, deep furrows appearing. His new, more animalistic face was more difficult to read than Erik expected, but Hank had been wary of him before the events at the beach; it stood to reason that Hank was the one he had to convince, rather than Raven or Azazel. Alex and Sean were more likely to go along with the plan if brilliant, sharp Hank couldn't see any flaws in Erik's reasoning. He stopped himself, then. It would do him no good to treat them as opponents, as obstacles to be overcome, even if that's how his instincts commanded he act. He would need Hank's ingenuity in particular in the coming months. Better to win him over now, or at least to return to the wary respect they'd had before they'd attacked him over MacTaggert. 

Erik sat back in his chair, nodding sharply once. "I don't have anything that could be made suitable right away," he mused aloud, slowly, giving them time to both follow his train of thought and object. "I'm used to making due for one, so most of my safe houses wouldn't be acceptable for a group half our size. I do have a place in the Alps, one that I haven't touched in several years that might work, however. It's going to be cramped, at least at first, though at least we won't have to worry about how we're going to get outside of the country. Hank, you'll have to go over the plans with me—" 

"I do not get a say?" Azazel asked around a quiet, sharp chuckle. "Lensherr, do not make me abandon you so soon." 

Erik raised a brow. "Did you have another suggestion? I'm sorry, but I'm not taking the risk that the CIA has discovered whichever of Schmidt's dank dens of iniquity you'd like to drop us into." 

"Oh, no," Azazel reassured him, "They are not dank. They are all very..." he gestured a little, an expansive gesture as he struggled to find the right word. "Opulent. They are opulent dens of iniquity." Azazel's blue eyes glimmered with humor. "Shaw preferred wealth and displays of riches." 

Erik caught a smile threatening to cross his face and tucked it away. From the way Azazel grinned, he caught the twitch of Erik's mouth, however. "No," Erik told him firmly. He got a speculative look in his eyes as he glanced at Raven. "Though, maybe we'll take advantage of that opulence—and his bank accounts—eventually." He shook his head. "That's for later, once it's safe to approach them. Do you have any suggestions that Schmidt hasn't had a hand in?" Erik inquired, more for show than anything else. 

Azazel leaned forward, his mouth stretching in a dangerous smile. "I do," he said in a calm tone. "There is a place Shaw never used, refused to even go see. There are no ties to it." 

Erik narrowed his eyes, suspicious. "And why didn't Schmidt have any interest?" 

Azazel's dangerous smile turned into a baring of teeth. "Because one can only reach it by teleportation." He sat back then, well satisfied. 

Erik was clever enough to know when a gauntlet had been thrown. His mind raced. If this place could be reached only by teleporters, it was possibly one of the most secure places in the world. There could be no way for governments to take them by surprise, no way to invade except with a full complement of artillery and tanks just for good measure. It was, quite possibly, the perfect option for them. 

Yet Schmidt had flatly refused to use it. 

_Ah,_ Erik thought, seeing the question posed to him. _A matter of trust. Can we trust Azazel enough to take us there and, more importantly, let us leave? Can we trust Azazel to keep from bringing in humans to kill us in our sleep? Can we trust Azazel to protect us from the environment around us, should something go wrong? Schmidt, it seems, never trusted him._

_Can I?_

"I'll have to see it first, of course," Erik said conversationally. Immediately, uproar broke out, Raven, Sean and Alex all shouting different things at their loudest volume. They all seemed to be protesting the very idea of going someplace Azazel suggested in different forms. Over them, Erik added, "I will have to make sure there's enough space, that we'll be able to make it properly habitable, that sort of thing. And we'll need verification of exactly where it is." 

Azazel's bared teeth disappeared, and a contemplative look took over his face. Erik wanted to tell him that Azazel had already made the first move—had already agreed to stay when none of his allies planned to, willing to enter the proverbial lion's den when none of them had reason to favor him. This was simply Erik responding in kind. Besides, Azazel had had multiple opportunities to either kill them for killing Schmidt or simply abandon them to the mercies of the wider world, striking out on his own. Finally, though he was loathe to admit it, he couldn't help the way his instincts were telling him that Azazel meant what he was saying thus far, even if the motives weren't out of a genuine interest for their welfare. 

It was only then that he noticed Hank was not adding to the din, but rather studying Erik and Azazel, his new face inscrutable. The blue fur, the brilliant gold eyes—Erik had meant it when he'd said Hank had never looked better, and even when the other man had been throwing him to the ground in an attack, Erik couldn't help but appreciate the fact that he'd dared to do so in the first place. "Thoughts?" Erik asked mildly, though he could see the gleam of Hank's powerful brain churning in his eyes. The others would listen to Hank's support where they might not yet listen to Erik's own argument, and Erik knew that Hank was smart enough to read the implications of something like this, where other social cues might pass him by. 

"It's a good plan," Hank rumbled, though he didn't sound one hundred percent sure. That had everyone turning to gape at him, but before they could start yelling at him in turn, Hank informed them, "It's the safest place for us, to be someplace that literally no one could possibly know about. We'll be able to regroup there. Plus, I've dabbled in some geology." Hank flushed a little, pushing up his glasses which while scratched and a little dirty, had somehow survived the journey, "And I could probably make us a tunnel to get us out if we needed to, since we should have an alternate route out regardless." He turned to the teleporter, and his expression was almost apologetic. Erik couldn't help raising a brow at the change in demeanor; Erik had assumed Azazel and Hank would have the greatest problems remaining civil. "No offense, but if something should happen to you, we can't risk just hoping for the best." 

At that, the others relaxed a little. For Hank, "dabbled in" was tantamount to, "was an expert in." After all, Cerebro was the product of his dabbling, as was the Blackbird that was Hank's pride and joy. If nothing else, they trusted that Hank's creations wouldn't let them down. Mostly, at least; Hank's new appearance was perhaps not the most reassuring of reminders. Still, if Hank was willing to stake their lives on it, he wouldn't do so without being absolutely sure. Furthermore, talk of an alternative route out was enough to soothe away most of their practical worries, though Erik could still see the dislike of Azazel on their faces. He had to keep in mind that they'd seen him in action, killing the CIA agents who were theoretically there for the mutants' protection, for all the good that did. 

"Brave words," Azazel snorted. 

Hank's toothy grin was as dangerous as Azazel's own, his shyness dissolving as the bestial nature, brought so close to the surface, dominated. "I seem to recall knocking you out." 

"Because you had help." Azazel sounded sullen. 

"Well, then, I suppose a rematch is in order," Hank growled, muscles tensing up all at once as he prepared to spring. 

Azazel smirked, but when Erik held up a hand, the tension subsided a little and they settled down again, calming their ruffled feathers. "As I said before, I need to see it, need to have independent verification of where it is, and we will have to see to creating an alternate route in or out." Erik was willing to tentatively trust Azazel, not follow him blindly, after all, "but this is probably the safest place for us to regroup." Erik waited for everyone's reluctant nods before directing his gaze back to Azazel. 

"Now for the next step. Gather all the mutants in this facility—if you have one, I know Schmidt must have others here. I want to talk to them."


	6. Sum Total of Choices

_Charles changed, but his home had not._

_It felt like everything here should have been different, because everything that mattered was different. Charles had come back different, missing his nerveless limbs, yes, but missing Erik and Raven more. They were the true phantom limbs, the ones that Charles tried to use to reach out and the ones whose loss Charles felt all the more keenly as a result. Charles knew logically, if nothing else, there would come a day in the future in which he would be able to make his peace with his chair-bound status._

_Charles didn't think he could make his peace with their leaving._

_It was made so much worse by the way life in the mansion had been suspended during their absence._

_They came back to Westchester together, piled in the small, uncomfortable car that Moira had rented, and it was as though they'd never gone. Except for Charles' wheelchair in the trunk, having only the boys crammed in the back, and Moira herself staring at the road with a white-knuckled grip in the pervasive silence that dominated the entire trip._

_Inside, Charles' teacup was still in the sink, tipped on its side, the tea that had spilled out leaving a brown ring on the metal. Hank's workroom was still an unmitigated disaster, broken glass and crumpled metal and ruined experiments. One of Sean's records was still out on the player, the needle set aside and the grooves filled with a fine layer of dust, now unplayable. The clothing that Alex had meant to put in the wash, he really had, now crusted with sweat and other less savory things in the corner of his room. Some of Moira's files, left behind in the scramble to get down to the debriefing in DC before they headed off to Cuba._

_Erik's knife, glimpsed only once, emblazoned with_ Blut und Ehre. 

_The necklace he'd gotten Raven when she'd turned eighteen._

_The briefcase with the bar of gold, forged from Erik's people belongings._

_Raven's favorite dress, no matter what her form._

_Erik's book._

_Raven's perfume._

_Erik's watch._

_Raven's music._

_The physical trappings of their life, stealing Charles' breathe at every turn. The things they'd left behind in their race to enmesh themselves in a war they couldn't hope to win. If Charles let them, those reminders would drag him into the deeps and drown him._

_Charles had never been a martyr, had never been perfect. He tried to pick up the pieces and put them somewhere safe, somewhere that if Erik and Raven needed their personal belongings they would be able to get them. It was a slow, arduous process, and one he gently but firmly refused help for. Better he linger in the spicy scent of Erik's room or press one of Raven's shirts to his cheek in privacy. When the task was done, he stored them in the suite of rooms on the ground floor that he'd taken over, telling himself that it was too risky to ship everything when he doubted Erik and Raven stayed in one place for long. Better not to risk losing them. Of course, he also had hope they might have come to collect them, eventually, had hope that they would face him, had hope that they might one day come home._

_After all, he was not a martyr and he was not perfect._

_And since he was neither of those things, it seemed only right to take two items—Erik's watch and Raven's necklace—as talismans against the oncoming storm._

~*~ 

"This is it?" Erik couldn't help asking. In the entire facility—nine doctors and fifteen nurses, thirty-odd researchers and a few cooks, cleaning staff and two general handymen who kept the place running—there were no more than seventy people, all told. Only five of them were mutants. 

Azazel shrugged. "We were...useful, the ones who went. Shaw did not care as much about finding mutants with Emma, especially not ones he could use to further his plans. Why bother, when we were planning on creating a hundred thousand of them in a heartbeat? If they were there, we took, but it did not matter." 

Erik couldn't help shaking his head. If he'd learned one thing, it was that the mutants that seemed relatively limited in capacity could be used for an enormous number of things, given the right incentive. After all, he'd been skeptical of Sean's use in the mission to stop Schmidt, but without him, they would have been unable to track down Schmidt in the first place or have someone capable of facing Angel in the sky. Given the enormous resources Schmidt had, it seemed like an complete waste to spend his time playing governments against each other simply in the hopes that it would create more mutants, especially not when it would destroy everything else along with it. 

Still, Erik knew better than to complain; he would simply have to make do, as he always had. He strode into the room that he'd asked Azazel to gather the mutants in, instantly quelling their anxious chatter. Two women and three men awaited his arrival, pressed close together in their chairs, staring at him warily. He'd already met one of the women, Doctor Wright, and he tamped down his surprise at finding out she was a mutant. He hadn't noticed, hadn't even suspected with the awkward way she'd discussed Doctor Cooper's as a skill, as though it was something learned rather than a gift. Erik stared at the woman next to Doctor Wright, solemn but curled in on herself slightly, figuring that she had to be the mutant capable of healing Charles. Azazel quietly listed the others next. Edmund Chandler, Jacob Hertzfeld and Ivan Kozynsky respectively, two researchers and a cook, all of whom gazed at him with an almost animal wariness, though Chandler and Kozynsky hid it admirably, schooling their face into something approaching neutrality. 

"I'm here to offer you a deal," Erik told them bluntly as he stood before them. "The one you know as Sebastian Shaw is dead. I killed him." He gave them a moment to process the news. Most of them gasped, widened their eyes, stared at him in varying levels disbelief. One of the men edged back, horror on his face, but Erik didn't particularly care. He'd saved the lives of the people he'd found himself caring about in the end and kept them from the government. He'd done what was necessary to end Klaus Schmidt and prevent him from causing further harm, and he'd do it a hundred thousand times over. The fierce exaltation he'd experienced when he'd finally, _finally_ drilled the coin through Schmidt's brain surged up in him again and allowed him to face their reaction without flinching. 

He reveled in the feeling for just a moment, then said in a cool tone, "He ignored you, abused your talents, but in one thing he was right. We are the mutant race, and we are the future. It is time for us—all of us—to stand together against the humans who would seek our destruction. Join us. We can protect each other, can unite the way we should have long ago." 

There was a moment of loaded silence, and then one of the men snorted. 

It was the dark-haired one, Hertzfeld, who glared up at Erik, that animal wariness melting into something altogether belligerent. "And why should we believe you? That maniac took us from our homes, took us from our lives and wanted us to just fall behind him like good little sheep and follow his lead. The only place he was planning to lead us was right over a cliff." He stood, looking upset. "Press ganged, forced to use these—these _curses_ to..." he didn't finish the thought, gesturing expansively, a pained look on his face. "And what if we don't follow _your_ lead? Do you have plans to cut us up into little pieces, to figure out what makes us tick?" He rolled up a sleeve, which was covered in a crisscross of scars. 

Silently, Erik rolled up his own sleeve, the one that hadn't been tattooed, exposing his own set of fine white lines, long since faded with age. Schmidt might have wanted to know what made his gift work, but he wasn't about to take unnecessary risks with his prize; the cuts had been cleaned and bandaged, even stitched shut occasionally, when the only option was that or allow Erik to bleed out. "No, I won't." His voice was quiet, but fervent. "Whatever else—I will never harm a fellow mutant unless you get in my way; I'm working for the good of all mutant-kind." 

Hertzfeld straightened, looking at Erik with something like pity. "Unless we get in your way," he echoed softly. Something about his voice reminded Erik of Charles, and he quashed the thought reflexively. He didn't care think of Charles right now, even less so of his soft and naïve philosophies. The government had made sure of that; the only way to keep their race from being exterminated like pests was to make a stand and become victorious, no matter the cost. "I think I've learned all that I need to know. Thank you, but no. Not ever." He stood and gave both Erik and Azazel a swift nod before he walked out, gliding through the wall without ever opening it. 

As with Angel and Riptide, Erik had to fight down a wave of fury. He didn't understand how they could choose this, this purposeful ignorance and idiocy, knowing what they had to know about humans. They clearly hadn't trusted the people around them with their secret before ending up in Schmidt's facility with the truth of what they could do, or they'd have been rejected outright, or captured to be used and abused by any of the hundreds of organizations that wanted to turn them into tools to further their own goals. His mouth pinched slightly. Perhaps their aversion to Schmidt's work was one thing—Erik himself was repulsed by what he'd attempted to do; the only thing left after a nuclear holocaust would be grey ash. That didn't mean the mutant race shouldn't stand together and fight. 

"I agree with Jacob," Doctor Wright snapped, sounding peevish. Erik turned his attention back to her. "If I had any other job..." she trailed off, looking a little flummoxed and then propped her hands on her hips, "Well, I don't, so you're just lucky that I took an oath. And I take it seriously." Those sharp eyes pinned Erik, or would have done so to someone less composed. Erik just met her accusations head on. 

"So you're staying?" he said in his most even tone. 

Doctor Wright's mouth tightened, those golden eyes flashing, and she jerked her chin up. "Only because it is my duty as a doctor to stay with my patient and because I sincerely doubt that he will get the necessary aid otherwise, if you're planning on allowing mutants only to accompany you." She dropped into her chair again, then, bowing her head slightly. In a slightly more subdued tone that was tinged with despair, she added, "Until he is recovered, at least, but no longer." 

Erik could accept that; the time would give him the opportunity to bring her around to his perspective, convince her to stay around. When she saw how Erik's methods differed, she was sure to understand why it was so important that she aid the mutant cause. Beyond that, however, Erik felt the stirrings of relief. A doctor, even one with eyes that were literally as sharp as a hawks and not the healing mutation Cooper had, would be necessary for the life they were about to lead. If Erik was being honest, he was more concerned with convincing Cooper over Wright; a doctor would be necessary, one with a healing factor invaluable. It was that thought that had Erik turning inquiringly to the other woman, who squeaked a little under his gaze. Doctor Wright put a protective hand on Doctor Cooper's arm in support, glaring at Erik as though he'd filleted a small animal before them. 

He scowled back at Doctor Wright, annoyed. For a brief moment, he wished he could simply drag them along, willing or not—but it would set an ill precedent, to try and force another mutant into following his lead. MacTaggert was one thing, a human and a government agent at that, but collaring one of his own? Not a chance. To do so would be no better than putting a Star of David on their clothing. Erik shook the thought out of his head and gazed at Cooper meditatively. Words, then. It seemed he came back to them time and again. 

"You too," he coaxed her, and turned to the group at large. "Despite your colleagues comments to the contrary, I don't want to harm anyone unnecessarily and I'm not going to try and force your hand over the matter. However, I'm sure that, whatever your mutations, whatever your skills, you will find a place among us." He turned to Cooper, who turned scarlet under his stare. "You in particular, I admit. My friend is ill, injured. We could use someone with your skills. Please, at least join Doctor Wright in staying long enough to see him properly healed. Doctor Chandler, you as well," it was a guess, that the man had a PhD, but he thought it was a solid one, and if he was wrong, the flattery of assuming he was more intelligent than he actually was wouldn't hurt, "your research and work with our own scientist, Henry McCoy, would be of great help to us, I believe. As for you, Mr. Kozynsky, we will hopefully have many hungry people to feed." He let his smile turn a touch self-depreciating, let them believe for a breath's time that they held some sort of power over him, "All of you, you're mutants, regardless of the skill or level of strength. You are unique and powerful." 

Cooper bit her lip and stared at her feet. "Your friend...with the back injury?" she asked cautiously. 

"Ally!" Wright scolded almost immediately, like she was a recalcitrant child trying to stay out too late. "This is going to be dangerous, and you've got the option to leave this, to go home! Take it while you can, while you've still got the chance!" As in so many other cases, there was a story there, probably multiple stories, but Erik felt no need to determine what they were any more than he'd have liked it if any of them attempted to pry into his history. 

Cooper tilted her head a little, and said quietly, "You have that chance too." Wright bit her lip, and glanced away. "You're not the only one who took an oath, remember? And I've got my..." she trailed off, waving her hands in some sort of vague, mystic and faintly ridiculous indication of her mutation. "If anything, I should be telling you to take this chance." 

Wright looked outraged at the thought. "Well, I'm not going to let you go alone." 

Cooper nodded, then, and told Erik, "I guess you've got the two of us, then." She didn't look at all convinced or enthusiastic as she said it, but she didn't have to be; she just needed to stick around long enough to heal Charles. 

Still, it wouldn't hurt to show them civility. "Thank you." More relief slipped out than he'd intended. Strangely, the words seemed to calm the women, rather than rile them up further, and Cooper slouched back down into her chair, while Wright crossed her arms over her chest. 

With at least two more mutants added, however temporarily, to the cause, Erik found his heartbeat slowing just a touch, some of the anxiety fading away. Charles, pale and forlorn in that too-large bed, looking like the whiteness might swallow him whole, rose in his mind. Erik firmly shoved it aside, and turned his keen gaze to Chandler and Kozynsky. "Well?" he inquired lightly, trying to sound largely unconcerned with their responses. 

The pair were silent, awkwardly so, for the better part of minute before, the surprisingly slim figure of the cook hunched his shoulders before gazing nervously up at Erik. "I..." Kozynsky's gaze fluttered from Erik to the others in the room, as though looking for the correct answer in their faces. Even from that one word, however, Erik detected the rolling Russian accent that Azazel shared. "We have decide now?" he asked carefully, making sure of his words before speaking. 

"Well," Erik answered, considering carefully, before reluctantly admitting, "No, you don't have to decide right now, but it has to be relatively soon. Angel and Riptide are headed out as soon as Angel is cleared to leave, and we'll be leaving ourselves as soon as Charles can be transported safely. So you've got at least a few of days to think your decision over." Then, even more reluctantly, he added, "All of you should think it over." He didn't want to lose any of their aid if he could help it, not when Hertzfelt, Riptide and Angel were so adamant about refusing to remain with their people. However, nor was he like Schmidt, intending to conscript these people to his service; they were his brothers and sisters in arms, not his underlings. 

Kozynsky flashed him a surprisingly bright grin at that, but didn't say anything more. Instead, it was Chandler who tapped his chin thoughtfully, pushing up the glasses that were almost as large as Hank's. "Then let us think about it." 

"Please do," Erik agreed smoothly. In a way, this could be even better. He'd get Hank to talk to Chandler, at least. Scientists tended to stick together in Erik's experience, and Hank's enthusiasm for research was nearly palpable. Perhaps he'd send Raven after Kozynsky; Raven knew how to read body language. It was one of the reasons she'd persisted after Hank; even though he'd been shy and awkward about it, there had been no mistaking his interest in her. She'd be able to read Chandler almost as well as Charles might have and figure out where to push. Though Cooper and Wright had already agreed, it wouldn't hurt for Erik to try and press his point home, either, emphasizing Charles' need for aid. 

He got up to leave, waving one hand briefly; chatter broke out before he was through the threshold and Erik found himself grinning a little, showing teeth. Whatever else, at least they were starting the move forward. "Over the next few days," he said conversationally to Azazel as they left, shutting the door firmly behind him, "I'd like for you to start taking the humans wherever they request to be dropped off. Make sure it's non-essential personnel first. Don't allow them to take anything with them, especially not anything that could be traced back to this facility." 

"They do not know where they are," Azazel assured him. "And Emma took what they found from them, if they got too close to discovering the location, if Shaw thought they knew too much. They took research that way too, sometimes. Better that they don't know the whole thing, yes?" 

Loathe though Erik was to admit it, if he'd had the same options, he'd have done exactly what Schmidt had. Leaving their pet scientists with only bits and pieces, keeping them here where they've got no ability to pass that knowledge along to the outside world, making sure that no one knew the full story even within the facility. Erik only wished that Charles awake, that he was able to fog their memories or steal them as Emma had before the humans were permitted to leave. Without that, though, Erik could only limit what they took away with them and hope that without any way to get back to the facility or point out where it might have been; like MacTaggert, Erik didn't dare kill them, lest the information somehow slip. Besides, the bodies of people who had been missing for years suddenly appearing once more would raise the sort of investigations that Erik didn't yet want. This way, even if they decided to make their experience public, it would sound like a wild conspiracy theory, furthered by the fact that they'd have no proof. 

"Of course it's best if they don't know," Erik agreed. "But it's best to err on the side of caution. Strip search them if you must, but don't let them take anything out of this facility that could be traced back to us. Also, we're going to have to start gathering up all the data and information—include their identification information in case they decide to spill their story—they've gathered so far and start getting it over to your..." he hesitated, and then said vaguely in case someone was listening, "The location you suggested. And I need to go with you, I think, along with Hank to start turning it into something useable." The list of things that needed to be accomplished in the next few days stretched out before him. "And we need to see when Angel and Riptide are leaving," he mused aloud. "And when Charles can be moved. I'm going to have to speak to Doctor Wright and Angel about that." 

From there, it was a series of meetings that felt like it would never end. Hank was attempting to sift through mountains of information, trying to determine what was and was not useful. Raven was working with the doctors, trying to organize medical supplies for transport, while Alex and Sean were in charge of making massive lists of the more general supplies they must account for. Erik himself found himself trying to be everywhere at once, from attempting to convince Chandler and Kozynsky to join the rest of the mutants to even doing his best to persuade Hertzfeld to join them even in the face of his steadfast refusal. He also tried to convince Angel and Riptide that they'd made a mistake, that they were going to be more at risk than ever, especially Angel and Riptide, who the government would all but give their right arms to get a hold of. 

Erik also found himself in the far reaches of the northern Rockies of British Columbia with Hank, taking a look at the cave system that Azazel had offered for their use; it was a self-contained system within the base of one of the mountains itself, a set of chambers and tunnels that was close enough to the surface to permit Hank to open the caves to the surface in several discrete areas where the changes wouldn't be noticed. Erik let Hank hash out the exact location with Azazel, listening to their arguments silently even as he oriented himself to magnetic north and deduced their location via triangulation. With magnetic north not being the same "north" that existed at the top of the planet, it was almost painfully easy to pinpoint their location on a map. Mount Ulysses, British Columbia—exactly as Azazel had said. 

Something in Erik's chest eased slightly at the knowledge that in this, at least, Azazel could be trusted. 

The one place where Erik found himself becoming conspicuously absent, where he allowed Raven to almost exclusively handle all the affairs was with Charles. 

Seeing Charles completely helpless made Erik's stomach twist up in knots—and made most of the metal in the vicinity twist up too. It was better to stay away, especially when something like shame and guilt sat so heavily in his chest, right next to the agony and blame that marked a fatal gunshot wound in a Nazi death camp. 

He told himself time and again that it wasn't his business, not the way it way Raven's. He was the interloper who had no right to be there, no right to made decisions on Charles' behalf unless Raven specifically asked him— _not when sometimes, he caught himself clutching onto that bullet even now, not when the words, “might not walk again“ thundered in his veins—_ and certainly no right to ask even silently for Charles support. Erik wouldn't allow himself to sit at Charles' bedside because he knew without a doubt that he'd find himself begging _so hard_ for Charles to open his eyes, to wake up, to help him and figure out how to make those under his protection as safe as possible. The thought that he might not be doing enough, that he ought to kill everyone who wasn't coming with him crawled under his skin, trying to claw its way out and he found himself staring at the ceiling more than once, practically shaking with the war raging inside him. 

When Erik did finally get the chance to sleep, it was mostly snatches here and there, just enough to sustain him before he threw himself back into the fray. Exhaustion was buried deep, and he drove himself as he had in the years between Schmidt's escape and his meeting with Charles, when the elusive clues to Schmidt's trail came to light only after he'd threatened and stolen and tricked the necessary information out of people; he would have time to rest later, when they were safe in the mountains and could afford to catch their breath. 

Amidst all of the chaos, having to say his goodbyes to Hertzfeld, Kozynsky, Angel and Riptide almost took him by surprise. He simultaneously felt like the four days since the day under the scorching Cuban sun had passed in the blink of an eye and were the four longest days of his life. He gave them all the number of a PO box in Doylestown, Pennsylvania, a rural town on the outskirts of Philadelphia that he'd set up years ago through a fake identity; he had such boxes, or something similar, in most countries across Europe as well. He would have to speak Azazel about checking it regularly, and Erik realized with a dawning sense of horror that he might actually have to write physical lists in order to keep all of this information straight. 

The one bit of silver lining, however, was that Chandler chose not to take his leave like the others. It had come as some small surprise that Chandler would chose to stay, but Erik had been correct in identifying the man as someone as passionate about science as Hank. He lacked the other man's genius-level intelligence, but he was exceedingly clever in his own right, and as Hank had confided almost reluctantly, "It'll be good to have a reliable pair of hands available." 

Kozynsky and Hertzfeld disappeared first, early in the morning, without ceremony. In fact, only Erik was around to see it when Azazel whisked first Kozynsky off to Chita, Russia followed by Hertzfeld who demanded to be taken to Denver, Colorado. Azazel's lip curled at the proprietary way Hertzfeld told Azazel where to take him. Unlike Kozynsky, with whom Azazel lingered for a few minutes—if nothing else, being around a fellow Russian seemed to have made Azazel slightly more talkative—he came back almost immediately after dropping Hertzfeld off. From the looks of things, Azazel was sorely tempted to make it a literal drop. 

Then came Angel and Riptide, around noon. The goodbye was simple, almost ridiculously so. Of all the people, only Erik and Raven came to see them off. Raven gave Angel a hug, brief but tight, before giving Riptide a quick nod of farewell. Angel looked shocked by the touch, but pleased, too. Erik remembered then, vividly, of how Raven had pestered Charles that they needed another girl around to, "make sure you idiots don't go throwing yourselves into the ocean all the time. Moira has enough to do without babysitting you all too". Charles had looked embarrassed at the time, but Erik recalled with absolute clarity the way Charles had murmured, in a voice almost too low for Erik to hear, "I'd do it again, though. A thousand times over." 

Maudlin, sentimental behavior Erik had thought at the time, but the way Charles' mouth had curled into a tiny smile that held all the power of a supernova had burned its way into him. 

As for Erik, he limited himself to a brief handshake and a reminder that all they needed to do was ask for help and they'd be there to help. Angel's eyes remained cool and sharp, but Riptide had nodded and in a serene voice, responded, "Should we have need for it." 

Erik had to bite back bitter words at the dark undertone to Riptide's words which even his attempt at serenity couldn't disguise. Instead he stepped back, fists clenched, and let them go. 

It was so much harder than he anticipated. 

Azazel reached out his hands, and Angel and Riptide took hold. At some silent communication, they departed. Erik stared at the spot where they'd been, Raven at his side, as the red smoke cleared. "They'll come back, eventually," Raven tried to say supportively. 

Erik's eyes slid to her briefly. "Do you really think that?" 

Raven's mouth twisted up in a grimace. "I don't know." 

With Angel and Riptide's departure, the facility seemed...different. It wasn't something Erik could place, not really, besides some vague sense of emptiness that even the presence of Doctors Wright, Cooper and Chandler couldn't fill. They hadn't seen what Erik and the other had, inherently standing apart as a result of their work under Schmidt. They stood out in an inexplicable sense that even Azazel did not, and Erik quickly gave up considering the matter. It was simply best if they left, and left quickly. 

Erik did his best then, as always, to devote himself fully to the task at hand. Food, beds, blankets, the research—all of it had to be transferred to Mount Ulysses and organized to the best of their ability before they set up base there. Raven, imitating Charles, had withdrawn substantial amounts from his bank account and then hidden away a good portion of the money. The CIA couldn't admit that there had been mutant involvement in Cuba, so they had no legal reasons to tamper with any of the Xavier accounts, but if Azazel hadn't been waiting nearby to whisk Raven off at the earliest opportunity, Erik wouldn't have been surprised if the CIA or one of it's fellow agencies would have tried snatching her illegally. They'd taken enough out that they could pay for at least some of the things they took over the following days, though Erik and Azazel scoffed at it even being necessary. Erik would have spent the money elsewhere, on bribes or to buy information when cash was vital, but Raven had been firm on this point, stating that they would either take from companies that could afford to absorb the loss or leave money in payment. Erik had quickly tired of squabbling with her, choosing to dedicate himself to their new hideout. 

It was progressing surprisingly smoothly. Even the entranceway to the surface was nearly completed, having been little more than the work of a day between Hank's intelligence and delicate application of Alex's powers; it hadn't been more than twenty feet from the closest tunnel to the surface to actual sunlight. Within a hundred years, the cave would have been naturally exposed without aid. It had furthermore been the work of only mere hours to brace most of the structure with metal and seal it off firmly. Already Hank had plans for bracing the rest of the system, once the basic amenities were installed and they had the chance to do so. 

It was harder work than Erik expected, turning stone and dirt into Ithaca,—what Sean, of all people, had referred it as jokingly, after hearing the name of the mountain, but the name had stuck—into a place to live. 

_Still,_ Erik thought with no small amount of satisfaction, brushing away the sweat that trickled down his nose, _it's worth it. Absolutely worth it_. Here, with metal he'd personally installed gracing most of the structure, with Hank's own security measures, even the location itself, they might be safe for a time. 

In fact, the only thing missing was Charles. 

He was finally ready to move eight days after the events at the beach, having spent the entire time in sedation, waiting until the stitches from the surgery had been mostly healed. There was no sense in trying to figure out how much damage had been done to Charles' lower body until they were sure that Charles' movements wouldn't tear out the stitches and reopen the wounds, potentially causing more damage in the process. Keeping Charles sedated for another few days would also allow Cooper to spend a day or two dedicated on healing Charles' back, rather than splitting her time between that and the stitches. Furthermore, no one was sure what effect Azazel's transportation might have on Charles' body, so they needed all of the extra time they could get. It was a long and arduous process, more so than Erik ever expected despite the limitations Wright had described. 

In a way, it was almost anticlimactic when they finally moved him. Doctor Cooper and Raven were awaiting them in Ithaca, with Doctor Wright making the journey with Azazel and Erik, along with Charles himself. Azazel had assured them that he would be capable of transporting the bed that Charles was on as well as the IV line as the other necessary equipment had been already transported, preventing any jostling that would further injure the telepath. Even so, it was still heart-wracking to put his hand into Azazel's, with Azazel's other hand firmly gripping the bedrail as he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. 

Erik was only just beginning to get used to the feel of teleportation, but he didn't think it would ever feel quite right. He staggered as he came out, forcing Raven to support him for a second until he regained his feet. He frantically cast his eyes to Charles, hoping against hope that he would be alright. The two doctors pushed the group gently but firmly in the direction of the door, where Alex, Sean, Hank, Chandler and even MacTaggert were hovering anxiously. 

Charles was hurriedly hooked up to a heart monitor, his vitals checked, his IV checked, his injuries checked. Everything that might have possibly changed for the worst was examined with an almost fanatical care, Doctors Cooper and Wright utterly ignoring the bated breaths that Charles' friends and family couldn't help holding. 

Finally, Wright looked up, stared right at Erik, and gave a surprisingly delighted smile. 

Cheers broke out, and the other rushed in, babbling excitedly and generally making a nuisance of themselves. For once, Erik allowed it, turning to Azazel and holding out his hand. Let the others enjoy the fact that Charles had made the journey safe and sound; Erik and Azazel had one last trip to make. 

Standing in front of Schmidt's facility for the last time, it seemed almost small. Not fragile or cramped, as such, but almost dwarfed against the wild surroundings and Erik's own self. Almost twenty years under the man's thumb, more than half Erik's lifetime. He stared at the plain windows and white-washed concrete without really seeing it, breathing coming hard and fast. 

Enough. Time to end this. 

Erik raised his hands, and ripped it to shreds. 

Metal support structures groaned, glass shattered, concrete gave way, entire walls exploding outward as Erik gestured with an almost wild abandon in the same way he had in the submarine room where he'd torn everything to pieces. The building rattled and protested, but gave way beneath Erik's will. He dragged portions of the structure down into the earth itself, utterly dismantling everything. He cast away any thought of serenity for this one moment and reveled in the destruction, even knowing that Charles would give him that look—the one that said, as he had on the beach, _We are the better men, Erik_. 

Erik made sure to wreck that image to, for just a moment, until the pent up exhaustion he'd held at bay for so long flooded his system and the pain and rage and grief he hadn't permitted himself to indulge in for so long ebbed away. He thought he should have felt better, but he mostly just felt sore and bitter and still so _furious_ and _grief-stricken_ that he didn't even know what to do. 

Erik stared blankly at the chaos he'd wrought. Rubble remained, but not much else. If there had been something left inside the facility, Erik doubted it could even be recovered, not with the way he'd practically melted the metal to slag in some places. Good, then. 

For now, it was done. 

Erik held out a hand to Azazel. 

It was time to return to Charles.


	7. Ithaca

_The worst part—the very worst part, the part that kept Charles up at night—was that Moira understood._

_Her mouth was soft and warm and_ wanting _against his, and the kiss was its own gift. A show of desire and reassurance that cut him to the quick and had him wishing nothing more than to better repay her kindness and gentle support, her quick reassurances that his secret was hers and that she would stand against the government in this matter until the day she died. Her earnestness was nearly painful against the way Charles had tried to steal himself for this very moment, knowing what he had to do._

_Then her mind opened before his, and it was not Erik's sharpened steel and furious will or the surprising joy that had made its home deep down in the deepest part of him; the joy that Charles had only just begun to see rise to the surface before Cuba. In her mind, however, Charles found a kindred courage to that of Erik's, a fierce passion and intelligence that he'd seen there before but hadn't fully appreciated. He'd glimpsed it when she'd turned him down so completely in the CIA base, but even then her piercing outrage had disguised most of it._ Your beautiful mind _, he'd called it so easily, so flirtatiously. He'd meant it, of course, he always meant it, but for a man who could steal into anyone's mind without them ever being the wiser, he was ashamed of how purposefully blind he'd been to Moira—and to Raven and Erik._

_And now he was all set to wreck it._

_Something in him broke first, though, and he pulled back the barest amount, breaking the kiss._ Please? _He asked her, taking all of his worries and needs and hopes and unveiling himself in her mind as he couldn't recall doing in anyone else's. He would do this without her permission, would invade her memories and rip them from her and would make his peace with it if it meant that Alex, Sean and Hank and every child they would rescue could sleep safely._

_Still, he repeated,_ Please? 

_His breath caught at the thoughts and emotions and images that surged through Moira's mind—the sharp tang of unfairness accompanied by the image of Stryker brushing off her accomplishments yet again, the_ words already see me as a woman, already see me as unreliable, _the flash of bitterness directed at Charles himself, the vivid picture of Charles laying in the hospital bed and tangled shame and regret, the deep-seated and slow-burning sadness that screamed,_ I don't want to lose this home, these people, this life _, the shattering fear of what was to come next and the complicated sense of devastation._

_Yet beneath it all lay the absolute conviction that this was necessary to keep her allies, her_ friends _safe from the beginning war. The understanding that as hard as it was for Moira to accept this, it was just as difficult for Charles to do this, to consciously take away something as fundamental as someone's memories. The trust that Charles would be careful with her mind, that he was doing the right thing as much as she loathed it._

_Yes._

_Charles made a sound that might have been a sob and—_

_“I remember the attack on HQ...leaving to go somewhere else...and then this morning, I woke up at home.“_

~*~ 

Raven stood, twisting slightly back and forth to crack her back. "Alright, then. I'll get this list to Azazel right now and then talk to Doctor Wright about needing anything else." She frowned down at the papers in her hand, blue brow wrinkling a little. "I meant to ask you something else, but I've completely forgotten. Oh, well. I'll remember it eventually." 

The thought of forgetting something niggled at the back of Erik's mind for a moment before he recalled what he'd meant to ask himself and said, "How are we on food?" He tried to remember the state of their kitchen. Hank had rigged a couple of makeshift showers and a sink up to one of the many generators they'd, well, _liberated_ from their former locations was probably the kindest way to consider their theft, and they could keep things cold using the refrigerator and freezer combination that Chandler had installed. However, this business of starting a residence from complete scratch was a far cry from the fully functional kitchen and individual bathrooms they'd had in the Xavier household. Here, they barely had a regular supply of water, and Hank was already at his wits end at trying to design some sort of irrigation system by which they might have a steady supply of water to do more than take brief showers and keep themselves from dehydration. Add in the fact that privacy was almost completely lacking because of the close quarters, the constant work, the pervading chill that even the gas heaters couldn't remove, and tempers were quickly reaching the breaking point. 

Even Erik was accustomed to hot, cheap food during his time hunting Schmidt. Most of the people he'd been chasing had been unwilling to leave the convenience and curiosities of the city, though the cities had been in many varied locations; it was also easier to lose a trail if there were plenty of people about than in the middle of the wilderness. Here, though, without a stove, they'd gone through an utterly staggering amount of cereal, milk, soft drinks and sandwiches in an effort to keep Azazel from being forced to go out into the wider world. They didn't want to risk him potentially revealing himself especially now, while the government was on high alert—and it was only the first week. Erik knew they had a massive amount of work to make this place truly livable, and wondered if he shouldn't have all but Hank and Azazel leave to go to one of his other safe houses for just a few days, until they were able to go to the bathroom without first making sure that the complicated system of pipes and pressure that Hank had rigged wasn't going to accidentally explode. 

Erik sighed heavily. 

Raven made a face and sat back down, perching on the edge of her chair. Somehow she'd already installed herself indispensably as his right hand, keeping the majority of the day-to-day business piling up running smoothly so Erik could spend his time with security, working through the years of notes that the people in Schmidt's facility had gathered and doing his best to keep them in training. "We'll need to pick up more bread again tomorrow, or the day after," Raven said, and she was starting to get a pinched look on her face. "We really need to talk to Hank about getting some sort of stove. If I eat another bite of cereal, I'm going to become a nutritious and delicious ring of oat myself." 

Erik rubbed at his face, a tension in his temples tightening for a moment, but his mouth twitched despite his best efforts. "Tell me about it. Actually, don't," he hastened to add when Raven opened her mouth, her golden eyes glinting with a humor that had been almost entirely absent the past two weeks. The thought in and of itself was sobering, and Erik sighed. "Go out this evening and do that grocery shopping, and get something hot while you're out." It was a sacrifice already; they didn't have an endless supply of cash, and it wasn't worth the time or effort to steal food that was actively being prepared, but Erik found himself realizing that sometimes sacrifices had to be made to keep moral up. 

He was gratified immediately to see the way Raven sat up, smiling widely in a way she hadn't in too long. "Any requests?" she inquired. 

Erik thought for a moment, and thought about what three still-growing boys might want to eat. "None of those burger joints," he intoned with finality. "Don't let Alex or Sean persuade you otherwise." 

Raven's blue mouth twitched dangerously, but she didn't actually smile. "Alright, alright." This time when she stood, it was with a much lighter air, one that made Erik relax in response. They had so far to go, but it was moments like this that made it seem worth it. She made her way to the enormous metal door that divided the room that doubled as Erik's workspace and bedroom from the rest of Ithaca. The door opened smoothly and without much effort on Raven's part, but she lingered, pushing it open slowly. Facing the tunnel, she said quietly, "You should check up with the doctors," before escaping. 

Erik's good mood evaporated entirely and he stared down unseeing at the papers on the table that Hank had dropped off earlier for him to look over. Hank had described it as research into looking into the structure of the genes themselves—looking for irregularities in the structure that Watson and Crick had discovered not quite a decade earlier, looking for different sugar or phosphate groups in the base, even going over the base pairs with a fine-toothed comb for a difference between normal human DNA and that of mutants. Erik had though it would be fascinating to read; Charles had loved to expound ad nauseam about what little research he'd done in regards to comparing his own DNA or Raven's to that over other generic blood samples. Charles hadn't been able to do too much at the Oxford labs without raising eyebrows, but he'd spoken sometimes about being able to do so once the business with Schmidt was done with a sort of dreamy hopefulness that Erik had found naïve to the extreme. 

Now, though, the papers held no interest for Erik. It seemed that it was Charles' love for genetics rather than any predilection of Erik's own that had been at the root of Erik's interest. Erik smoothed a hand over the latest report, the dry black-and-white letters building a rather boring picture—little, if anything, had been discovered based on what he'd gone through so far. 

He shook his head and set the papers aside when he read the same line for a fourth time. With Raven's words ringing in his hand, he couldn't focus on his work. As in the hospital, he'd tried to relegate the responsibility of Charles' care almost exclusively to Raven now that they were mostly settled in Ithaca. The complex swirl of emotions that attempted to tear themselves from his breast seemed to grow more overwhelming, not less, each time he saw the prone, thin man. Even the room itself was disquieting; strange shadows that always seemed to fill the corners of Charles' room. 

Erik was intimately informed, of course—practically nothing happened without his express knowledge, because while Raven was learning to be strong in so many things, Charles was her elder brother and he could see how much it tore at her heart to see him like this. There was a difference, however, between his cold, practical and purposefully distant understanding of Charles' condition and the things that Raven, Hank, Alex and Sean did with him. They spoke to him, sometimes, as though he was capable of listening to their words. Erik could hear their murmuring voices sometimes when he passed by Charles' room. They would check in just to see how he was doing, features wary but hopeful each time they saw Cooper in particular tending to the man. They seemed to live in a constant state of eagerness when it came to Charles, like any moment he might be restored to them. 

Erik didn't understand how they could feel that way, given that they were theoretically as aware as he was of just how much damage had been done to Charles' body. He couldn't find it in himself to carry that same sort of wild hope; in his experience it was more of a detriment than anything else. It made it a thousand times harder, then, to listen to the progress reports involving phrases like, "trying to prevent pinching any nerves" and "won't know until we finish with the tests" and "possibly keep Charles under sedation for at least a couple more weeks". 

Mindlessly, Erik reached out with his powers and pulled the nearly fatal bullet from his pocket, delicately weaving it between his fingers as he stared at the walls ahead of him as he once had with Schmidt's coin. The tightness of his chest increased and it almost felt like the metal pulsed in time with his heartbeat. 

He stood abruptly, headed for Charles' room, knowing it was either that or hunt down MacTaggert and make her pay, the crushed bullet searing hot against his senses. He reached out to the slim ring of metal that was warm against skin, something that was becoming as much of a habit as fiddling with the bullet that had put Charles in this tenuous position. He'd done it instinctually at the time, but now he found himself stupidly wishing that he hadn't taken the metal so completely into himself, knowing every atom as intimately as an old friend. It left him with no peace; he could neither kill MacTaggert nor swallow down the overwhelming rage and terror at what she'd almost taken from him. Better they remain separate. Though Erik couldn't help but be acutely aware of exactly where the woman was at any given him, he had no idea of how she spent her time, what she thought of Ithaca, how she was doing—as he'd informed Hank back at Schmidt's facility, if MacTaggert was to remain alive, it was in their hands. He'd have nothing to do with the woman. 

Erik clenched his fists, nails digging furrows into the skin of his hands, and stormed out of the room and into the dimly lit hallway outside. It simply wasn't practical to have anything beyond the absolute necessity illuminated, given how they were already taxing their generators. It was far chillier outside in the hallway as well, since they'd tried to moderate how much Azazel went out, which meant no unnecessary heaters either. Erik shivered a little, breath just barely visible, and shoved his fingers deep into his pockets, hyper aware of the bullet still within his fist. 

Wright wasn't anywhere in sight when Erik stepped into Charles' room, but Cooper was. She was seated on the far side of Charles, who had been lifted as gently as possible in some strange combination of pillows and pulleys to allow Cooper to slide her fingers underneath the man, pressing them as gently as possible to the outer edges of the wounded area. Her face was unnaturally still, and as usual something about her screamed that while she might be physically here, her mind may as well have been in a completely different world. Erik had found it disconcerting at first, especially given how even in Cerebro there had been a distinct sense of pure, unmitigated Charles being at least vaguely present. It was a strange tableau, one that made the fine hairs on the back of Erik's neck stand on end. 

He pulled up a chair on the opposite side, studying Charles' profile rather than his body as a whole. He was breathing steadily but he looked exhausted. Despite having not woken up once since the surgery thanks to the heavy sedation they had him under, he didn't look like he'd gotten an ounce of rest. The opposite, in fact. As the last few days in particular had passed, something about Charles had grown haggard, listless, if that was even possible. Perhaps it was that two weeks of IV fluids and feeding tubes hadn't been able to prevent the gradual loss of the healthy pallor to Charles' skin or the slight circles developing under the shut eyes. 

Erik let his mind focus on other things—from Alex, currently spending the day in Boston, continuing his work in figuring out which, if any, of the major newspapers might be sympathetic to their cause and whether any of them had even realized that mutants existed, let alone their involvement in the Cuban Missile Crisis that was only now starting to defuse. It leapt to Sean, whose ability to fly had been a near invaluable skill, making his way through the mountains looking for any signs of close settlement or regular patrols or airplane flight in the area that might pick up Ithaca. Raven, working closely with Alex as they tried to figure out how the government was responding to what they saw as the mutant threat to Hank and Chandler, practically burning themselves out to help Erik make Ithaca more defensible to Azazel himself, without whom this entire endeavor would be impossible as he was responsible for making sure everyone got where they needed to go in the blink of an eye. 

It took Erik several long minutes to realize it when Cooper finally came out of her trance. She was staring at him curiously; sweat beaded her brow and breathing hard, but she hadn't collapsed as she had the first time or two before she learned her limits of healing Charles' injury. Still, the constant use of her powers was clearly taking its toll on her. She looked almost as weary as Charles himself. He should tell the woman to pace herself, he should, but he wouldn't. The faster that Charles was able to awaken the faster they could finish their war. 

Cooper studied him, eyes bright, and while her gaze was not as sharp as Wright's, it was entirely too keen. "Help me," she said simply, gesturing at Charles, and they began the slow and arduous process of shifting Charles' body in slight ways that would both prevent undue pressure on his injury while also preventing bed sores, which Erik had been informed were a real and potentially fatal risk. Their descriptions had been visual enough that Erik didn't complain about aiding her. 

"Water?" Erik asked afterwards, gesturing to the small pitcher that had been set aside in the room; Wright and Cooper practically lived in the room, though one had been set aside from them. Nevertheless, they spent the majority of their time with Charles, regularly ensuring that their patient wasn't developing any complications that they couldn't handle. There was the constant undercurrent of fear for them all that if something happened to Charles they couldn't treat, they'd be forced to either bring the man to a hospital or bring someone to Ithaca; either way, they risked exposing themselves. Cooper nodded to Erik's offer, and silently drained the cup, keeping that too-knowing gaze on him. 

Erik poured her more water, trying to busy his hands to avoid her watchful eyes. "How is he doing?" he asked despite himself. He hated asking that question, hating the subtle yearning that always seemed to make its way into his voice, but he couldn't help it. He couldn't stand not knowing, paralyzed by it. 

She shrugged. "It's slow going," she admitted quietly. "I've never—I don't—I just," she blew out a short little frustrated breath. "The body is...complicated," she began more hesitantly, trying to find the right words. "We understand so little, it seems. And I'm not a neurologist or an orthopedic doctor, or even a surgeon. I was a GP who happened to meet with another doctor in Mount Sinai to get a second opinion of some symptoms in a patient, and, well. You know how that worked out." She gave a self-depreciating little shrug. "I can tell something is wrong, usually. I know what part of the body is ill, and why it's ill—because something is wrong with the brain, or because of strained muscles, or what have you. It's a long way between knowing something is wrong, even knowing _what_ is wrong, and knowing how to fix it." 

She stared down at Charles, delicate features darkening. "I am doing what I can, but I don't wish to cause further damage, even accidentally. I have to see how his body is trying to heal himself and match it with what I know—well, am learning," she amended, with another awkward little shrug. Erik knew she'd gotten her hands on as many books covering neuroscience and orthopedics as she could manage and was devouring them at a prodigious rate. "With what I am learning," she repeated, "in order to keep it from healing wrong." She smiled wearily at him. "Still, it's progressing better than I hoped. Maybe another five or six weeks weeks. Bones usually don't heal completely until a year to a year and a half has passed, but within about twelve to sixteen weeks they're able to bear up well enough that it's better for the patient to use their body despite remnants of the fracture, to strengthen the muscle and bone." 

Erik thought that over. Eight weeks instead of twelve or more; hardly an instant healing, but substantially better than the alternative. "And then we can bring him out of sedation?" He wanted to kill the hope in his voice, but he couldn't take back the words. 

"Yes. But please, remember something." Cooper's eyes weren't hard or pitying. They were just sad. Very sad. Every muscle in Erik's body tensed and he wanted to back away from that too-understanding look. "Even with my help, I don't think the damage can be reversed. Not fully. The bullet's impact left a lot of internal trauma that his body is still struggling to deal with." She bit her lip a little. "I don't know how bad it's going to be, when he wakes up." 

Erik's breath caught. Then, with all the force of conviction behind it, he told her, "Charles will be fine," before leaving again, hands shaking. Charles would be fine. He had to be. Erik couldn't—he didn't—no. Charles would be fine, because Erik would make sure it was so. 

Still, Erik found himself avoiding being alone with Cooper like the plague; for the ensuing weeks, as November crept into December he always made sure that he was either accompanied by someone or he was all alone in Charles' nearly silent chambers, little more than the beeping of the machinery and his own uncertain breath for company. 

Sometimes he wondered whether he was going about this the wrong way; being the adamant leader rather than the wise confidant that Charles had played. They didn't look at him with fear in their eyes, exactly, but there was always a tension in the air. They didn't go to him for training, or advice. It was Hank who devised ways for Alex to refine his control within the confines of Ithaca, Sean who aided Raven's ability to swiftly adapt by providing Raven with a description of his many siblings. It was Erik who felt like almost the outsider, unsure exactly when Azazel began to be greeted with genuine smiles more than scowls and impatience and wary hostility by the children Charles had taken under his wing. 

He missed it. 

Not that he had ever been their friend—even at the mansion, they'd been more comfortable keeping their distance most of the time—but neither had he been held so resoundingly at bay. He tried to shrug it off; with the war coming, it was better that they learn now to stand on their own, to rely only on themselves. He'd never lied to himself and pretended that he'd be able to succeed against Schmidt. He'd been willing to die trying, though, and was willing to do so even now. The children—except they weren't children, not really, they were young adults—had to dedicate themselves to the cause and find a way to do the same. 

Erik felt his heart twist up a little. He didn't _want_ to do this to them. No one wanted to sacrifice their children to war, even one so well deserved as this. It would be done, however, and Erik would be sure to lead the way, if only they would follow. 

Therein lay the doubt— it seemed that without Charles to show him the way, to bridge what he'd once called Erik's, "fierce charisma, really, my friend, you don't see it, but you have this way of simply drawing people in. That sort of passion and belief can go a long way, and while I know you don't see it, the children admire you," Erik didn't know how to reach out and connect, to make them see it as he did. Even with Raven he struggled, and she had become the only steady ground that Erik had been able to find through this entire messy affair. 

So it was only natural he should want Charles back. On that beach, the things Charles had said—and the things Erik had said, too, perhaps a little easier to see now that long days had passed and the bitter, searing hatred was no longer throbbing beneath his skin. Charles was supposed to be his other half, of course he was. They were supposed to bring the mutant race into full glory. 

They would. They _must_. 

For all their sakes. 

It was with those thoughts and an aching heart that Erik sat by Charles' bedside, the others crowding in close as they waited for Wright to take the injured man off the sedatives both four weeks and an eternity later. "You know, he's not going to instantly wake up," she informed them all drolly, sounding a little bored. "It's not like in the films. The sedatives are going to take a while to work their way through his system. You'll be lucky if you see him so much as stir for several hours, much longer before he's properly conscious." 

"We'll wait," Raven told her with a quiet, intense patience that Erik hadn't thought was in her. She remained utterly steady, gazing at Wright and Cooper, who was practically hidden behind the tall, stately woman. 

"As long as we need to," Sean agreed with a sort of blasé confidence that made Alex grin at him, quick and sharp. Hank put one enormous blue paw on Sean's shoulder in his own reply. 

No one had to say it, but there was hope in the air. With Christmas having passed only two days ago, it seemed like the prime time for a Christmas miracle, if one believed in such things. The excitement and joy and faith that lingered in the air had even Erik's stoic mask fading long enough to allow a smile to creep through. 

Erik leaned back in his chair, well satisfied. 

The hours passed. They'd all brought their own amusements to occupy the long stretch of time, but so much as a loud breath had them all looking in Charles' direction. Despite Wright's warnings, they couldn't help staring at Charles as though expecting him to leap up and do a tarantella within a moment, everyone casting one eye in the telepath's direction. It was hard to remain on full alert for the others, however, and within half a day, even the most stalwart of the souls had started to flag. 

Sean was unashamedly snoring, having told them all quite bluntly somewhere around the tenth hour of the vigil and thus somewhere around midnight, that if something interesting happened, they ought to wake him up but to otherwise to leave him alone. Alex, despite the fiercest of his scowls, had also faded not long after, curling up near Sean. Even Azazel had, albeit without a certain sense of reluctance, wandered off only twenty minutes ago, covering his increasingly frequent yawns. Raven was attempting to read some poetry, but Erik caught her jerking her head up every few moments, struggling to stay awake. Only Hank was successfully burning the midnight oil, still buried in the same giant stack of documents that he'd brought in with him, looking as focused as ever. 

Erik was accustomed to long waits, but even he found himself struggling to stay awake somewhere into the seventeenth hour, the long days that had proceeded this moment seeming to catch him all at once. He was just going to close his eyes for a moment and then get himself some coffee— 

Someone shook his shoulder. Erik started, and _moved_ , barely aware that it was Cooper standing before him. Metal was a hair's breadth away from piercing the tender flesh of her throat. She let out a little scream and flinched back, rousing Raven and Sean, who both murmured rather sleepily. Hank looked up, and at the expression on Cooper's face, gently kicked at Alex until his muttered curses turned into something more coherent. 

"What?" Erik snapped harshly, his heart beating a thousand times per minute as adrenaline coursed through his system. Then, modulating his voice slightly, he repeated," What?" in a voice that was only slightly less rough. 

Cooper's worried green eyes stared at him. "It's Charles," she gasped, the minute she had Erik's attention. 

Erik's gaze widened, and he shoved her aside to get a clear look at Charles. He hadn't moved, chest still rising and falling steadily. Charles' expression was still so expressionless and empty, his fingers having not so much as twitched as far as Erik could tell. As his adrenaline began to fade, he turned to her, fury in his expression. "He's not awake yet. What's wrong—he's not awake yet." 

For once, Cooper stood her ground, looking up at Erik with determination. "Exactly."


	8. May the One Who Blessed Our Ancestors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prayer that Erik begins to say is the "Mi Sheberakh", a traditional Jewish prayer for the sick; I got it from google, so I apologize for any misuse. The translation of the first line of the prayer is also the chapter title.

_Their last game hardly remained unfinished, with the pieces fighting a battle that would never be won. It would have been more poetic that way, perhaps, but all the pieces stood in straight rows at opposing ends of the board, merely waiting for their next use. Suspended, waiting for opening move, the other player forever_ in abstentia, _missing, the open wound and missing limb and raw nerves blazing—_

It is possible _, Charles thought wistfully as he stared at the board in front of him,_ that all this drinking is making me maudlin. _He didn't let that stop him, however, and poured himself a fourth glass of scotch to consume. He probably shouldn't be drinking at all, not given the fact that he was only so recently permitted to even get out of bed, but Charles couldn't seem to help himself._

_His mouth twisted up, sharp and bitter at he stared at the crackling fire stoked to ward away the winter chill. He drained his glass in two quick swallows, letting the haze of alcohol settle over his thoughts. The fire hadn't been around long enough to disperse the coldness of the room, and the coolness on the back of his neck reminded him of his sister. Raven hated the cold, hated the snow and the wet and the ice. Oxford had been almost painful some days, with its constant dreariness and overcast skies and she'd only endured it up to a point, when she'd make him take a long weekend for himself. They'd go to Sardinia or Paris or Cordoba for the weekend, one of the few indulgences Charles would allow them from his staggering trust fund, and laugh and eat and stay too long in the sun. Raven would smile so broadly, the grin lighting up her face and making Charles want to reach out and just hug her, to touch a little of that warmth._

_Charles set the glass aside absently, losing himself in his thoughts as he turned his gaze from the fire to the chessboard once more, a headache a low murmur building in his temples. Maybe if he'd listened more when she'd asked him to talk, figured out how to reassure her, been...something. A better brother, maybe. Or maybe just a good one. He'd tried so hard, to be that guiding force, to be a support to Raven and had failed on some level so critical that he was only beginning to comprehend it. Charles smoothed a hand over the chair he was now ensconced in, a dark smile creeping across his face, more furious that he would have liked to admit, all that anger directed at himself for his own foolishness._

_He wondered where they were now—not just Raven, but Erik too. He wondered where they'd come to rest, where they were stationed. Charles hoped it was somewhere warm, for Raven's sake, and somewhere without too many memories for Erik's, his face softening for an instant. He caught the thought, however, and his mouth tightened. They could not afford to remain Erik and Raven to him except as part of a memory of better times—they must be Magneto and Mystique, the face of the enemies he must stop for the sake of them all._

_He still wanted them to come home._

_More importantly, there was a part of them that wanted to_ make _them come home._

_He had no way to describe the power of Cerebro, no way to explain the sheer widening of his mind as though he had been blind before and could now see. It was exhilarating and frightening at the same time. There could be no comparison to a sense of scale; within the confines of his own body, Charles had a range of perhaps a hundred miles, though that was increasing as his used his powers more and more often. With Cerebro, he could cover four times that with ease, without pause or worry that he was injuring himself. The world was stretched wide, hundreds of thousands of minds at his fingertips and the ability to touch all of them intimately. With enough practice, enough work—it wouldn't be difficult to find the minds that were familiar to him. Whatever else, distance and their choices didn't make the minds themselves any different, any less vibrant or alive with the possibilities._

_Charles could do it, could figure out where they'd gone; even if Erik had a way to protect his mind, Raven didn't. Erik wouldn't suspect Raven, and with Charles already in her mind, it would be the work of a moment to bring them home, to encourage them to take their new allies with them. Charles could make sure that they were loyal, could_ ensure _their loyalty, could make it so they'd never be anything less. How he ached to bring them back into the fold, all of them. It wouldn't even be so bad, not really. After all, they were already loyal to the mutant cause, but he could give them the necessary restraint and mercy required when dealing with less powerful beings._

_He stood, absently, already plotting. Or, he tried to. As usual, his legs foiled any attempts to support themselves, nerveless as they were. Charles nearly toppled forward, overbalancing unexpectedly at the lack of movement. It made him shudder, jerked from his train of thought, and he had to brace himself on his own knees, gasping for breath and covered in a cold sweat that the fire could not dispel._

_“Gods and monsters, gods and monsters,“ he repeated to himself like a mantra. His voice was a hollow ache, a dismayed rasp. The knowledge of it, the searing, sour knowledge of it ate at him: if once, even if only once he reached out for no reason more benign than to check on them, Charles knew without a doubt that he would not stop, would not_ ever _stop until they had been brought home. He would take his powers and clutch the world in his greedy fist until it bent to his will, or die trying. The alcohol made his vision swim—or perhaps it was the tears. He made a choked, incomplete noise that was either far less or far more than human._

_In the aftermath, a flare of blinding fury took him and he snatched the black king and the king's side rook from the chess set and in a show of ignorant strength, lifted the delicate wood and obsidian and marble pieces and hurtled it as far as he could against the opposite wall. Desperate rage gave otherwise weak limbs power and it crashed with a resounding peal of sound again the oak paneling._

_Charles clutched the pieces to his chest, blue eyes manic when lit by the red sparks of the fire._

Gods and Monsters. 

~*~ 

Erik paced back and forth in front of the doorway, having been forcibly removed from the room by Raven and Hank at Cooper's announcement. He could have made them leave him alone, but not without hurting them more than he was willing to do. Even so, they were eyeing him as blackly as he was eyeing them in turn, each of them nursing bruises and scrapes and dark moods that were well-rooted in fear for their brother, friend and mentor. 

No sound of what Cooper and Wright were doing could be heard through the thick stone walls that made up Ithaca. After telling Erik that Charles should have been off the sedation by now, that he should have been in a steady sleep or even been briefly conscious before returning to real rest, they had asked everyone to leave and immediately immersed themselves in their work. It had taken Raven's iron grip on his arm, and Hank's on his other, to allow himself to be all but dragged from the room, never taking his eyes off of Charles; even then, they'd gotten close to a proper scuffle when the door was closed in their faces and Raven and Hank were forced to hold Erik back. 

Despite the anxious looks they were all exchanging, no one said a word in the crowded hallway outside of Charles' chambers. Until someone spoke, until someone demanded answers, they didn't have to admit that they had no idea what was going on or what Charles' current condition meant. Erik rubbed at his face, turning his back towards the others. The scene on the beach replayed in his mind over and over, the snap of a gun firing and Charles' arched back. Over and over the images battered him until he stared at the stone wall blankly, eyes wide and breath coming hard, trying not to let the images swamp him. 

Erik didn't know how much time had passed before Wright came to the doorway, a silent and solemn presence. They immediate crowded her, but before Erik could get the first demand past his lips, she turned inside. Cooper stood near the head of the bed, her eyes closed and resting her fingertips lightly against Charles' temples, obviously still attempting to determine what was going on with the telepath. 

The minute everyone was inside, the dam broke and all the inquiries that they'd so carefully restrained flowed out in a rush. They spoke over one another, heedless of anything but their own worries. Wright watched them all speak, watched as their voices climbed, watched as their questions began to repeat themselves in an endless loop. When her silence persisted even as their voices dried up, practically as one being Raven, Hank, Sean and Alex turned to Erik, who asked imperiously, "Well?" 

"Sit," Wright commanded, but her voice wasn't quite as strident as usual, the sharp golden eyes that were the embodiment of her hawk's sight mutation softening. She was striving for neutrality, the same sort of cool confidence that she had displayed when they'd first met when Charles had just finished up the surgery, but Erik could see beneath that she was, at the very least, surprisingly anxious for her patient. "Please," she added, and despite the polite request, her tone broke no arguments. 

Erik sat in the chair near Charles' bed, heart in his throat. He could bear no further delays, and seeing their leader obey had the others following suit. "Well?" he repeated, and though there was a hint of that same imperious and impervious cool, it was cracking despite Erik's best efforts. 

Wright took a deep breath, pulling up the crisp and unconcerned doctor's mask. "Even with Charles' lowered body mass, the sedatives should have passed from his system by now. We changed over to something milder about a week ago for this very occasion, since a gradual removal of the drugs is safer than simply taking a patient off completely. Sometimes, however, patients who suffer severe physical trauma also end up with inadvertent brain injuries. Things like whiplash can cause damage to the mind without the patient actually suffering an obvious head injury in the first place." She paused delicately. "The trauma of something like a bullet hitting one's spine would be an excellent example." 

Raven inhaled once, a sob caught in the back of her throat, and the sound was matched by the sudden, low, piercing growl from Hank's throat that almost covered Alex's astute, "Fuck," and Sean's gasp of horror. Erik couldn't face them, wouldn't face them. "What exactly does that mean?" he asked with eerie composure. Calm was better, easier. The rage, the pain, that could come later. 

Wright sighed a little, looking away. "If for some reason a patient is unable to regain consciousness after an illness or traumatic physical or psychological event for example, depending on a set of determining factors such as reflexes and pupil dilation, it may be that they are in a coma. While Alice and I haven't yet had the chance to confirm it, we figured that it was best to discuss the possibility that it may be the case. It's likely that something about the spinal column injury had unforeseen consequences in regards to his brain function, assuming his status as a telepath has nothing to do with it; if there is anything that could have caused something like this, please speak now, even if it seemed inconsequential at the time." 

Raven looked stricken. "In the plane—I didn't think. I mean, I don't know, nothing like this has ever happened before. I was in the entrance keeping an eye on things, and I had to go help Hank and then we all ran towards the ship, but first, I thought...I thought..." Raven turned pale even beneath the vivid blue of her skin, a pasty white undertone serving to make her look exceedingly ill. 

Then, through numb lips, "I thought I heard him scream." 

Erik blanched, and the others murmured in low voices to one another. It was just a wash of sound for Erik, cresting over him without ever registering. "You heard him screaming?" Erik asked in a thin voice. 

Raven had her eyes closed, trying to focus and remember. The idea that Charles had been injured and hadn't been around to help him made her feel ill. "Maybe? I don't know for sure. It's not like I was that close to the plane by that point. After all, I was busy helping Hank head towards the sub. Then, when he came with Moira onto the beach, he didn't seem any different, at least, I didn't think so. Did you notice anything?" she asked, looking to the others, and they shook their heads, looking upset, worried or reserved as their natures dictated. 

Stronger, Raven continued, "There wasn't any blood, and he could use his telepathy just fine, so I don't know what he could have injured his head with while you were both taking care of Shaw. Moira would have said something, if that were the case. If he was injured for some reason, she would have made him stay in the protection of the plane or something, wouldn't she?" She looked sick to her stomach at the thought that something had injured her brother's head. Charles' telepathy was dangerous enough when he was even mildly ill or suffering from one of his telepathy-induced migraines. With a head injury, Raven couldn't imagine the consequences. 

Erik relaxed slightly at the words. "Charles was their precious pet," Erik agreed scornfully, shoulders growing tight. "She would have wanted to protect him to use as a weapon against the next set of enemies once the ones on the beach were dealt with. They wouldn't risk his life." 

Raven bit her lip, but didn't openly contest the statement. Hank let out another bone-deep growl of dissent. "That wasn't her job, and you know it." Immediately, Alex and Sean sat up straighter, wary eyes bouncing between Hank and Erik, muscles tensing. They'd manage to go several weeks without directly addressing the issue, since even Hank could admit the necessity of knowing what information the CIA had now that they were essentially renegades, but the tension had continued to simmer under the surface. 

Erik opened his mouth, a hot reply burning his tongue, but Raven gestured sharply. She had no patience for the ridiculous posturing of either of them. "Stop! Can any of you think of anything else that might have injured his head?" 

Slowly but surely, they replied in the negative. The only moment Erik could think of was on the plane, when they'd gone hurtling through space, but Charles had been pressed tight against his own, wedged between the warm metal and Erik's own body and had responded almost more quickly than Erik himself had, eyes clear and motions crisp. Charles was probably the least likely candidate for suffering some sort of head injury under the circumstances. 

Wright waited for an extra second or two just to make sure that no one was going to volunteer any possible answers. When nothing was forthcoming, she shrugged and admitted, "Comas are not something that we fully understand—" 

"Well, then what _do_ you fully understand?" Raven cried, her temper getting the better of her. "What are you going to do? What can we do? Is Charles _ever_ going to wake up?" 

For the first time, the composed mask fell completely, and the woman beneath it was surprisingly vulnerable, golden eyes opaque but huge in her face. "I don't know." 

There wasn't anything they could say to that. 

They were ushered out once more when the silence became too heavy to bear. It took another few hours of strain and anxious waiting before Cooper and Wright came back out. In the meantime they'd woken Azazel up, Erik wanting to make sure that if the doctors had any sort of emergency they would be able to transport Charles immediately to the best hospital possible. When they finally stepped outside of Charles' chambers for the second time, they looked exhausted and about ready to collapse. Erik gazed at them impassively, waiting to hear what they had to say. 

It was Cooper who stepped forward, reporting in a quavering tone, "I checked his entire body again, especially the areas surrounding his skull, his brain stem, and spine. With the exception of the wound, there are no noticeable issues with blood pressure, bruising, swelling, or anything else that we know can induce a coma. In fact, he didn't seem to have any issues at all. Nothing that I know of could have caused this." She hesitated for a very long moment before adding in a near inaudible voice, "It was almost as though he was gone. Like he left and doesn't plan on returning. I don't know how to describe it, besides it felt like his mind was....empty. We'll take some EEG readings, trying and figure out what's going on but," she gestured fruitlessly, "I don't know what, if anything, that test or the others we're going to try to run will tell us." 

Only a second or two of shocked silence filled the air. Fear coalesced in the breasts of Charles' friends and family, settling in directly beneath their hearts. This wasn't a problem to be solved, and enemy to be defeated. It would be comparatively easy to deal with those things. This was a ghostly attacker, one they had no hope of being able to vanquish with strength or cunning. They were largely out of their depth without any hope of recourse. No one spoke for several long minutes, mostly because it seemed like there was nothing to say. Hope, usually ever-present in Charles' company, was leaching from the air. 

It was Azazel who casually broke that pall by saying, "Emma could help. Xavier is a telepath, yes? Emma could probably figure it out, if it's something to do with his mind." He leaned back against the wall, red arms crossing over his chest. 

Erik turned to Azazel and said flatly, "No. Not in a million years. There is no way in _hell_ that I am letting that poisonous bitch touch Charles mind. Never. _Ever_." Azazel rocked back on his heels as though Erik had slapped him. Those blue eyes flash with a furious temper, fiercely bitter and without a single word he disappeared, leaving a sulphurous explosion of red smoke in his wake. Heavy silence fell in the wake of his passing. 

Erik's fists clenched a moment later. "I will _not_ allow her to touch him." Erik growled aloud as though the teleporter hadn't left; Azazel's disappearance had set him into motion, turning him from a wax echo of a human to one in blossoming color. Erik would never permit Frost to be around Charles, not when she was a close ally of Schmidt's who had many of the same powers as Charles, albeit not on the same scale. She could rearrange Charles' mind, could steal memories and hopes from him, could fundamentally _change_ Charles at twist him into something else entirely—she could do that to everyone but Erik himself, thanks to the helmet he'd appropriated from Schmidt, and even then Erik wouldn't put it past her to find some sort of way around it. Erik could not risk it. If that conviction had just cost him some of Azazel's help, he would sacrifice it a hundred times over in order to keep Charles safe. 

Erik took a deep breath, trying to calm the traces of tremors racing along his fingertips. 

"I'll help," Hank supplied in the unsettling quiet that fell after Azazel's exit. "I might not be able to perform any medical procedures, but I'm still a scientist. There has to be some sort of data on coma patients, on what sort of things cause them and ways to bring them out of it. Someone has to have done research. _Someone_ has to." He sounded more like he was trying to convince himself than anyone else, but Wright nodded decisively. 

"If the teleporter is willing, I will give him a list of medical and scientific journals that might aid our cause," Wright added, sounding stronger. "Surely there is relevant work being done that we can apply here." 

"I will keep checking," Cooper said, staring down at her palms. "I might have missed damage in my examination." She sounded somewhat doubtful of that fact, but also seemed equally determined to do _something_. Even absent in so many ways, Charles seemed to have the ability to inspire loyalty and kindness. 

"If you tell me what to look for, I'll help too," Sean volunteered easily, leaning against the wall. Alex gave a little wave, indicating that he'd do the same. 

Hank eyed them carefully. While it was true that they'd gotten a crash course in biology, chemistry and medicine the last few weeks, they were a far cry from being able to actually determine what was and was not vital information. Still, while they would never be geniuses on the same level as Hank, for instance, he didn't doubt that they could be trusted to learn what things to look for in order to weed out the least useful research. Hank absently scratched at the stone of the wall he leaned against with one finger, the claw slicing through rock. "I'll have to figure out what we're looking for first," he told them, "but that would be helpful. Thanks." 

Sean grinned at him, entire countenance brightening up. Alex simply shrugged, scowl softening a little, but the look no longer contained the same belligerence it once had. They wouldn't let the man who had done so much to help them suffer for any longer than they had to. "So where do we start?" Alex asked. 

"With sleep, for all of us. _Proper_ sleep," Raven interjected before anyone else could speak. "We've been up for most of a day now, and none of us have gotten much sleep. He wouldn't—Charles wouldn't want us to work ourselves to death for his sake." The words were said with a slight catch in the middle of it, but Raven forced the words out. "There's nothing more for us to do tonight except get what rest we can." 

It was very difficult to argue with Raven's calm, steady, reasonable voice, especially in regards to her assessment of own brother's wishes. With reluctant goodbyes, everyone except Erik left to get their rest while they could, even if it would take another day or two to return to a normal schedule. 

Since Erik made no move to leave, Raven didn't either, waiting for everyone else to return disappear before she turned to the metallokinetic and raised an eyebrow. "Aren't you going to sleep?" she asked in a sharper tone than normal. With everyone else gone, Erik could see the stress wearing at her, deepening the furrows between her brows and causing her muscles to coil. She hadn't been a leader when they'd first met, normally content to let Charles take the lead on everything from where they lived to what they did, and Erik couldn't help but think yet again on how admirably she was rising to the occasion. Behind the laughter and jokes lay a clever woman who was willing to go to almost any length for the people and things for which she cared. 

"No," Erik admitted. "I won't be able to." It was the truth; he'd spend any time he tried to sleep staring up at the ceiling, mind chasing itself in circles. He'd heard of those in the army, or of those in the camps, being able to drop off into sleep at a moment's notice, their bodies taking the opportunity for what rest they could get. Despite his best efforts, Erik's mind had never been wired like that, and he needed to be well and truly exhausted before he was able to get a real, full night's sleep. That had changed, little by little, during the time he'd spent with Charles, traveling and in his home, but since coming to Ithaca his old bad habits had returned. Until the adrenaline that was still thrumming through his body dissipated, he'd have no hope of getting rest. 

Raven tilted her head at him, amber eyes going opaque. Erik wasn't sure what she saw in his face or frame besides the obvious—tall, spare, angular, these days sporting a scruffy beard and wild hair from running fingers through it. Worn thin from unaccustomed worry. Where once his only concern had been for Schmidt's blood on his hands, he was now had five others for whom he watched over and cared for and was responsible for another four. Erik was beginning to wonder how much of that showed. 

The young shapeshifter opened her mouth and then closed it again, firmly, cutting off whatever she'd been about to say. Instead, she gave him a small smile and stepped forward and startled Erik with a short hug, pressing the length of her warm, curvaceous body against his own. Somehow it was far more surprising than when they'd embraced in Schmidt's facility, and intimate in a wholly different way that Erik couldn't quite put a finger on. Erik hadn't decided what to do with his arms, awkwardly lifting them to pat her on the back, when Raven stepped back out of his arms, tilting her head. 

Erik tried to shrug off her intense scrutiny. He hadn't liked it when Charles sometimes stared at him like that, like he was pinned beneath some enormous microscope and Charles could see right through him, his blood pumping in his veins and his beating heart and every damn thought in his head—and well, to be perfectly honest, that part was perfectly true. Charles could read everything that flashed in his mind, could detect the personal nuances and shadings that even Erik himself didn't fully comprehend. It was frustrating, to say the least, to be an open book in so many ways and yet to be surprised time and again by Charles. Just when he thought he'd come to understand the other man's motivations, Charles would make a throwaway comment that made Erik want to smile ruefully for the illusion that he'd ever come close to figuring the enigma of Charles Xavier out. 

"You should sleep, though," he told her belatedly. There was no sense in both of them running on fumes in the morning. Or, really, later that morning, since Erik's internal clock told him that it was somewhere around eight. 

Raven's mouth twitched in a reluctant smile, something in her eyes dimming. "I suppose," she commented, but she didn't move from where she was standing, within an arm's length. "I don't know how I'll be able to, though." She seemed to be waiting, almost, waiting for Erik to do or say something, but as Erik gazed down at her, he found himself at a loss as to what she expected. This was not the clear, easy need that she'd shown him that night in his bedroom. Then, it had been easy to read her desire to be found beautiful in her natural form, as though beauty alone would make her mutation any more wondrous. She was so much more than mere human conventions of beauty or worth or talent, and if Erik had been able to help that transformation into who Raven really was, it was one of the genuine bright memories he cherished. 

Now, though, she was no longer the child with her wants and needs painted across her face. He liked her better like this, liked the smooth confidence with which she moved through the halls, interacted with the others, like her blue skin was a badge of pride. What was that ridiculous idiom Charles had spouted with a wide grin? Ah, yes. Mutant and proud. 

Raven sinuously shifted from foot to foot, the movement drawing attention to her curves. _Ah_ , Erik thought finally. If he had been running on something less than pure exhaustion, he might have seen it earlier, the silent, physical comfort that Raven had wanted in the face of this latest disaster, though that probably wouldn't have stopped him from suffering from the same weary surprise as he did now.. 

He wanted to—oh, how he wanted to. The brightness of Raven's smile, her charm and beguiling desire. To lose himself for a couple of hours in the comforts of warmth and flesh and physical satisfaction. He almost caught himself reaching out to her, but the flash of Charles' blue eyes crossed his mind's eye stopped him. 

Charles' ridiculous enthusiasm for tea, and his cleverness, and his passion for the entire mutant race, and his callousness, and his terrible taste in clothing, and his naivety, and his unfailing optimism. Charles, smiling, laughing, instructing, debating. 

The desire to find oblivion with Raven was gone. 

"You should go to sleep," Erik repeated with mild emphasis. They couldn't do this here, now. Once, a single kiss, was one thing, but anything more than that was only going to complicate things. They could ill afford to have things get any messier than they currently were, especially if Erik's heart wasn't in it, could never be in it the way Raven deserved. If he did it now, when they were both raw and vulnerable and aching over the news that Charles might not ever awaken again—that they'd never see his brilliant blue eyes alight with joy or hear his wry humor or his be the recipient of his startling kindness—then he would be doing them both a disservice. 

At his words, Raven looked up at him sharply, staring hard at Erik's face as though looking for something. Then, oddly, she relaxed a little, going long-limbed and loose, and she reached up. Her hand was unusually warm against his skin and he closed his eyes for a moment, turning into her hand, pulling all the strength he dared from her, relishing the contact with surprising depth. She let it drop after a moment, exhaling slowly as Erik opened his eyes once more. Whatever it was he had been expected to see—rejection, hurt, awkwardness—it wasn't there. Instead, her smile was sunny and bright and Erik abruptly felt foolish for forgetting the confidence these last few months had revealed. The only thing Erik only found was a reflection of his own thoughts in her eyes. 

"Goodnight, then," were her only parting words before she took one step back, and then another, before making her way down the tunnel, the shimmering blue of her skin melting seamlessly into the shadows around her. 

Erik let out a breath that he didn't even know he was keeping in. Then abruptly he flushed, feeling uncomfortably warm. He turned on his heel and didn't look back, escaping into Charles' room. 

If anything, there was now more medical paraphernalia than before, and Erik glowered at it all as thought it was responsible for Charles' condition. Erik hated to abide by the weakness and inherent danger that he saw in the catheter, in the IV, in the EVC...ERT...EJK? Erik couldn't remember what they'd called it, but the steady beeping of Charles' heart through the machine, along with his slow breathing, were the only sounds he allowed himself to focus on. 

He pulled forward the chair so that his knees were touching the soft, clean sheets that covered the telepath. Erik had never been a man of easy indulgence and never could be, but he had learned to accept it in others, to a degree. Though Ithaca was currently a place of waste not, want not, already everyone was starting to collect little items for their own personal enjoyment. A book, an old Polaroid 95 for instant pictures, even a wind-up phonograph with a few 45s. Where Erik could have taken a few things for himself, however, he instead chose to make sure that Charles was comfortable with little things such as the warm, soft sheets. Let the others have their distractions that kept them from driving Erik to murdering them; his time was better spent working. 

It seemed too often that Erik found himself at Charles' side like this lately, lost in thoughts of might-have-beens or could-have-should-haves. If he'd stopped the bullet, if he'd fired it back at MacTaggert, if he, or MacTaggert, or Charles or Schmidt had done any one of a thousand things differently, the results would not have been as devastating as this. 

This helplessness rooted in the knowledge that there was, quite literally, nothing Erik could do to make things right. With his mama, it was easy enough. Kill Schmidt, get his proper and well deserved vengeance, with an appropriate dose of irony. Hatred was relatively uncomplicated, for all it had driven him to lengths that Charles would quail at. Erik pushed that thought away. There would be time enough to argue with Charles over philosophies versus the reality of the world when Charles woke up. 

If he woke up. 

There, again, the weakness was creeping in. As though Charles was already dead and buried. As though Erik had already failed. In the same breath, Erik's single-minded drive, the one that reminded of that moment on the beach when he'd felt the enormous metal weapons begin their ponderous shifting and unerringly focusing themselves on the saviors on the beach told him that he had to consider it. He could not assume that Charles would be well and whole ever again, that he would be ready and willing to see what was necessary. Erik knew that Charles _should_ follow Erik's lead, _should_ realize that the humans were a potentially crippling danger, but the telepath's bloody single-mindedness and arrogant conviction might cause him to dig in his heels and fight Erik instead of standing at his side. 

The enormity of what Erik would have to face without Charles overwhelmed him for a brief instant. He hadn't realized how often they'd relied on Charles' powers, on one level or another. To be able to see into the deepest recesses of someone's mind and to take the information without them every even knowing and to be able to twist people's minds to make them do as Charles desired them to was as magnificent as it was bone-deep horrifying. A part of Erik was terrified of Charles, of what he was capable of doing without his personal moral and ethical code; even _with_ Charles' moral and ethical sensibilities Charles was terrifying on a level that few others could match. 

Charles tried his best to disguise it. He tried to let his small stature and youthful face fool those around him into a sense of complacency, into thinking that despite Charles' powers he was no real threat. A part of that rumpled, awkward, professor-y façade was indeed that, a façade, but Erik had started to learn Charles' own tells. Charles was so accustomed to be the cleverest and most knowledgeable person in the room that he had become lazy, automatically reverting to the powers of his mutation even when a moment's thought on his own would have given him the right answer. It was simultaneously irritating and endearing, in part because Charles _was_ so often right. 

Of course, that made the times when he was wrong all the more devastating. 

Beneath Charles' many faults, however—and Erik knew there _were_ many—Charles had a beautiful and uncomplicated desire to help, to make the world a better place through sheer force of personality and goodwill. Charles had seen something worth saving in Erik, and he'd known the man well enough by the end to know that Charles would fake many things, but tears on Erik's behalf, for the wounded child, for the lost hope, for the broken heart, was not one of them. 

"Charles," Erik whispered, and it wasn't for all that the man could do to help the mutant cause, that Erik spoke. Though Charles could do everything from determining exactly what the CIA knew to convincing people to support their actions, it hardly seemed to matter to Erik right now. Erik spoke only for brilliant, kind, charming Charles himself, who deserved to be wanted for his own sake. 

Erik rested his hand lightly over Charles', feeling the dry cool skin there. Closing his eyes, trying to find that place between rage and serenity that he'd reached for when he'd heard the wild, rumbling bass of the metal in the submarine. He held the two points in his head, struggling to balance them against each other: Schmidt's low, perilous tone saying, "drei" and Charles tremulous and overjoyed voice saying, "You're not alone". 

Erik blinked hard, throat feeling tight and swollen, but he gingerly reached out with his powers, searching, and found what he was looking for. The pulse of the iron bound to the erythrocytes in Charles' body, present in every part of his flesh. It was the closest thing Erik could get to fitting inside Charles' skin, feeling Charles' blood beat in his own body. 

He was not Hank or Cooper or Wright or Chandler, or even Alex and Sean, to be of an aid, to move them that much closer to bringing the light back into Charles' small frame. His concentration needed to be elsewhere. 

He could afford this, though. 

Stumbling, saying the half-remembered words more out of rote than belief, but with that desperate hope a slowly growing seed at the center of it all, Erik began, " _Mi Sheberakh, Avoteinu: Avraham, Yitzhak, v'Yaakov, v'Imoteinu: Sarah, Rivka, Rachel v'Leah_..."


	9. En Passant

_Charles knew perfectly well that he could not actually feel the two chess pieces that were hidden in his trouser pocket. That didn't keep his mind from insisting, sometimes at quite a loud volume, that the heat and weight of the obsidian was sometimes too much to be borne. He told his mind to stop protesting and then wondered how highly talking to one's self rated on the scale of impending mental break-downs._

_For all he attempted to put a spin of humor on the thoughts, he couldn't deny the blackness that was constantly encroaching, fueled by rage and shame and disappointment. It seemed at times that they were the only emotions he was capable of feeling, or variations on that theme. Always the same thing—furious, biting anger that Erik and Raven could have left him on that beach, dying for all they knew, helpless to do anything to stop them. They had, for all intents and purposes, abandoned him just when he needed them most, when he was desperate to rely on their aid above all else. Beyond that, however, to have done so when Erik himself, at least, was partially responsible of it all was galling and suffocating in ways that Charles was learning all too well he was ill-equipped to handle._

_There was also the deep bitter shame that welled up in him at his newly diminished form, unable to so much as urinate without aid; how could Erik and Raven regard him with anything but disgust and pity, should they ever decide to come home? Even worse was the fact that despite his best efforts blame tended to creep in during his worst moments, when he was stuck so much as turning over to prevent bed sores, a concept which heretofore had been utterly unconsidered. He wanted to force Erik and Raven to feel what he felt, robbed of his mobility, a prisoner in his own home thanks to his inability to so much as get his wheelchair through a door at the moment._

_Disappointment never dropped over his shoulders without guilt accompanying, of course. Whenever he was not condemning Erik and Raven for their ultimate decision, he was busy condemning himself for his own. With the clarity of perfect hindsight and too clever a mind, Charles found himself searching out each and every one of his failings and relive it in its fully, horrific glory each time he closed his it. It should be no wonder that disappointment in himself for underestimating his own understanding, his own forthrightness, his own feelings was matched only by his guilt for the harm he'd caused to those he'd called, “friend“ and “sister“ with such honesty. It was made all the worse by the knowledge that he'd tried to protect them, tried to do what was best for them._

_It was its own kind of mourning, Charles supposed. He just truly wished he did not have so much to mourn, from the security that people are naturally inclined to do good, to the loss of his legs, to dealing with the bereavement of Erik and Raven having left him behind. Surely it was too much for one soul to bear. Finding peace of any sort was an almost hourly chore that Charles struggled with when all he wanted to do was crawl back under the covers and weep and the unfairness of it all._

_He bowed his head, closing his eyes and taking in a deep breath, fingertips resting on the chess pieces, trying to draw strength from them and completely unable to stop the ridiculous notion that it was working. His smile was crooked and unhappy; he seemed unable to shake this taking of mementos, as though having Raven's necklace and Erik's watch weren't enough._

_Charles, however, had never been one to sit back and let such morbid moods overtake him, at least not where the others could see. He could mourn, and would continue to mourn, in private. However, he could ill afford to let the others lose their sense of purpose in the wake of the events on the beach. No need for them all to wander around like lost souls. Better he give them something to put their efforts into, a distraction that would serve them all well._

_He had already started making plans for the coming start of the school year, working with Hank to rebuild Cerebro in the basement of the mansion, helping Alex and Sean determine which classes they would be teaching. They were slowly converting several of the older bedrooms into something suitable for older children or teens to turn into their own and enjoy. It was good work, consuming work, and Charles threw himself into it with abandon, letting the constant preparations sweep him up into the flow so that he wouldn't have to_ think _anymore._

_After all, if one did not think, one could not dwell too deeply in the past, could not be caught up in memories better left undisturbed._

_Or so Charles hoped. In reality, he felt it all them more acutely for its unconsciousness. He would turn automatically to ask Raven's opinion of a color for painting the rooms because she had a far greater talent for fashion. The smell of bread would remind Charles of nothing so viscerally as the time Erik had taken him to a Jewish deli in New York City. A joke that Raven would have appreciated made him laugh even if he wouldn't have normally found it amusing. Sometimes Charles would catch a glimpse of a well-worked piece of metal around him and find it on the tip of his tongue to request Erik describe it to him with his mutation._

_He didn't let on that it happened, however. Since he left the hospital, the façade he'd pulled over his features to deal with it all, the kindly good-hearted and calm mask had consolidated the moniker “Professor X“ in the minds of his first, and so far only, students. They looked to him for guidance, for normalcy, for the ability to carry on in the face of what should have been insurmountable pain. They had their own troubles, their own nightmares plaguing them even in their waking hours. Charles was an adult who didn't need to share his own horrors with those in his care; he would save whatever vestiges of childhood remained in Hank, Alex and Sean that he could._

~*~ 

"Try this one," Raven told Hank, throwing him another pair of pants in Hank's direction. He caught them easily with his newly sharpened reflexes and ducked behind the door, and knew almost preternaturally when Raven rolled her eyes, for all he couldn't see her. He knew that once, at least, she'd found his modesty and propriety adorable and only faintly irritating, but he was pretty sure it was mostly irritating and only a little adorable now. He tried not to let it bother him, and pulled on the pants. 

Stepping back out around the door, Raven's face lit up almost as much as it had when he'd made the admission of needing to get completely new clothes. Raven had been all too happy to leap on the opportunity, informing him that geek chic was—and here she sighed—all well and groovy (and something about the way she said it made Hank think that she was mocking Charles as much as him) but he could stand to, "have some boss rags since we're getting you new clothes anyways". 

Which led to this. Hank, trying on everything Raven had gotten for him to try on to figure out what sizes would fit, since he wasn't in a position to go get them himself. He'd tried to tell Raven not to get him anything too ridiculous, anything that would seem out of place on what he couldn't help thinking of as entirely nerdy frame, transformation or now. 

She looked at him appraisingly. "Not bad, not bad," she admittedly, sounding cooler than her initial expression would have led him to expect. Still, excitement was glimmering in Raven's eyes, and she looked far too pleased when she propped a hand on her hip and lifted up another pair of pants and a shirt this time. "Now these." 

Hank stifled a long-suffering sigh and tried very hard not to feel like an enormous blue dress-up doll. 

~*~ 

Admittedly, Sean knew perfectly well that it wasn't possible to survive only on brownies, despite his best efforts. It was, however, one of three dishes that he'd learned how to make—brownies, his mom's famous shepherd's pie, and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Of course, Sean had mostly learned how to make brownies with the intent of putting hash in them, and had many a time, but he was good enough at making them by now that they were delicious without the drug-induced effects. 

He poured the batter into the pan, taking a peek at the clock he'd taken into the kitchen with him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement. Startling, he almost dropped the pan, which would have been awful because he'd have to start over and he didn't have the patience for it. He barely had the patience for doing it the first time. 

It was Alex and, surprisingly, Raven, looking at him in a mix of shock and awe. 

"That's brownie batter," Raven said obviously, eyes wide. "Actual chocolate brownies. Like. Homemade brownies." 

Sean's mouth dropped open. "Um. Yes?" It wasn't supposed to come out as a question, but it did. He sort of felt like he'd been caught with his pants down. Hah. Awkward. 

"How long until they're done?" Alex asked, but it came out more eagerly than any of them were expecting. Sean looked at him askance and Alex was practically vibrating, staring at the pan. 

"I don't know. Half an hour?" Sean hazarded. "Somewhere around there. It depends how good Hank's rigging is on the oven." Of course, Hank's rigging was usually very trustworthy, so that would probably a pretty accurate estimation. "But they'll still need to cool for another twenty minutes or so. They're going to be too hot, right out of the oven." 

"Dude," Alex retorted flatly. "You're making _brownies_. You pretty much just became the most awesome person _ever_." 

Sean stuck the pan in the oven and rubbed his fingers against his shirt as though polishing them. He grinned at his friends easily and kicked up the door of the oven with foot lightly. It snapped shut with a little _clang_. "When wasn't I?" 

~*~ 

Alex dropped his clothing onto the ground with a grimace. They really needed to find a better way of washing clothes. Alex had spent the last few years in prison, and he was _still_ used to more conveniences than this. He could appreciate that the Bozo was doing his best balancing all their demands, but Erik was one scary asshole when he wanted to be (and he usually wanted to be when it came to security, like this place wasn't close to fucking Fort Knox these days). 

Still, they either needed to get at least a washing machine, since the clothing could probably afford to air dry, or they needed to add yet another task to Azazel's already full list, and have him drop someone off at a Laundromat to get everyone's clothing done. This hand-washing their damn clothing just wasn't cutting it. Of course, Alex didn't want to be the one that brought it up. Azazel was already grumbling dangerously about not being a, "гребаный такси" whatever the hell that was, and Alex wasn't going to make matters worse. Raven was the only one who seemed to be able to coax the teleporter into helping, (well, and Erik, but Alex was also reasonably sure that given enough time, Erik could make a stone bleed) since Azazel tended to laugh whenever Alex or Sean requested something, and he refused to do anything directly at Hank's request until they had a rematch. 

Alex sometimes wondered whether they'd all gone insane and just hadn't noticed it quite yet. They were like some sort of bizarre and dysfunctional comedy routine. The mundane and the weird, all mixed up into a single conversation that used phrases like, "much needed reconnaissance" and "that's why we need the hobo clothing" with complete seriousness. 

Finally standing underneath the spray of the showerhead, Alex was reminded of yet another grievance, mostly regarding the fact that there was only two showers available to the ten of them. He tried to put it out of his mind indefinitely; he was going to enjoy the hot water for as long as he dared and think of nothing else. It was the first real privacy that he'd gotten in a day and a half, and he was about ready to throw plasma at the next person who so much as looked at him funny. He'd never realized how much he'd enjoyed the solitary confinement until he was constantly surrounded by people who just could _not seem to shut up_. 

He took the soap, rubbing it across his skin and rinsing it off with brisk movements. The same was done for shampoo, and then Alex stood for a moment with his chest and head under the narrow spray, the heat chasing away the worst of the cold that nothing Hank did seemed to alleviate. His back, free from the warming water, however, grew cool and Alex mourned being unable to stand beneath the heat and let it wash over him from head to toe. 

His back grew warm. 

Alex froze for a moment, eyes wide at the faint sensation of someone standing behind him, close enough for his skin to pick up their body. He whirled, nearly tripping over his own feet, but there was nothing behind him. 

There never was. 

This kept happening, and Alex couldn't figure out how to stop it. It wasn't a prank; he'd figured it couldn't be, because things like this were _impossible_. He was alone, with everyone devoted to their own tasks, and yet someone—something—was trying to fuck with him. It was never much, a spot of warmth against his skin as though someone was standing there, someone dark-haired and dark skinned out of the corner of his eye, a murmur in a voice that couldn't be there. _But aren't ghosts supposed to make you feel cold and hell bent on revenge?_ he thought wildly, hand waving around in front of him as though he expected to hit something invisible. Nothing, of course. There was always nothing. 

Still, he knew the cause, though Alex didn't know which was worse: the thought that Darwin was dead and gone, or the thought that he'd come back for the one who killed him. 

~*~ 

This wasn't fair, it really wasn't. He didn't even have to stick around; in fact, he _couldn't_ really stick around, not without the little humans running around and screaming and accidentally hitting each other in their hurry to get away and purposefully hitting him in their hurry to kill him. So it seemed patently unfair that he had to be one of the people that examined their weekly grocery list, when it was usually the younger, female Xavier who when and bought everything anyways. 

He squinted at the list, Xavier peering at it beside him. "Is that...pinut butter?" Azazel asked her, and Azazel wondered whether he was completely losing his grasp on the language he'd been speaking for several decades. He could make neither heads nor tales of this awful scrawl. 

Xavier tilted her head, red hair brushing his sleeve. Sometimes, it struck him hard, looking at this woman, so young and beginning to move easily in her own skin. It took a bravery that enticed him despite his best efforts, when simply staring at his own skin after hours of looking mostly at pale, soft humans still occasionally took him by surprise. He liked her for that, if for nothing else, and was glad that he spent most of his time not regretting his decision to see how these strange people, led by such strange ideals, lived. They had been a curiosity, one he'd been willing to betray for a good enough reason, but they were...Azazel couldn't put a name to it. The closest he got was a saying he'd been taught in the circus that raised him: "All the mankind entered this world through the same gate." 

Shaw hadn't treated him as a human or as a mutant as much as he'd simply treated Azazel as someone useful, to be swayed with just enough logic and persuasion as was merited for Shaw's ultimate goals. His mutant status gave him privilege in Shaw's eyes, to be better than those around him—but never better than Shaw himself. With this often bewildering and bemusing group, he was a respected equal, even if he faced more dislike and confusion from almost all quarters. It was...entrancing. Possibly fatally so, Azazel couldn't help but fear. 

"No, that's peanut butter," Xavier corrected, frowning a little. "God, did Sean try to write this with his feet?" She copied the item onto her own personal list in messy looping writing that looked to Azazel's no better than Cassidy's. "Alright, I think we're ready to go. Come snag me in about an hour, down the alley that's right next door, as usual." She laced her hand through Azazel's elbow, muttering unkind things to people who are barely literate under her breath. It seemed she shared more in common with her brother the professor than she would perhaps like to admit. 

Azazel did as she commanded, depositing her near the grocery store and disappearing once more before anyone had the chance to really see him. He had always been skilled at doing back to back teleportations, mostly out of a keen survival instinct. He spent his free time eating the remnants of the chocolate mess the Cassidy boy had made, savoring the treat despite himself. Azazel had found quickly that it was one thing to have luxury, but it was another thing entirely to enjoy it. Too often he'd found himself trapped behind walls, inside the submarine, or otherwise unable to experience the freedom Shaw had promised him. 

When he met with the young shape-shifter once more, Xavier gratefully shoved several bags in his direction, looking harassed at trying to balance it all. "Here, be a help and take those before I drop them," she told him, sounding bossy and irritated. Azazel took them, mostly because it was not as amusing as one might think to vex her. Xavier's nasty streak could be very nasty, if she so chose, and Azazel preferred to watch as she found other targets. 

When they reappeared once more in Ithaca's small kitchen, Xavier set her things down with a grateful sigh, cracking her back lightly. "Thank you," she said brightly, smiling with surprisingly warmth. Another curious thing, these little expressions of gratitude. It was disconcerting, to say the least. "You make an excellent taxi," she added wickedly. 

Yes, that was more like it. 

~*~ 

Edmund looked up with some measure of owlish surprise when the blue shape-shifter, Raven, stepped inside what was generally accepted as the laboratory. It was one of only a handful of times that she'd ever bothered to intrude, each time bringing news of great import. "Hello?" he tried to say, but it came at as more of an astonished inquiry. "Did you need something?" The laboratory was their domain, his and Hank's for the most part, with the occasional interlopers such as Alice or Sean. If he was lucky, they brought food. 

"Not exactly," she hedged. 

Edmund continued to stare at her, squinting slightly. _Then why are you here?_ he wanted to ask her. He didn't, mostly because in his experience, bosses didn't really want to do more than lord over you the fact that they were the boss, regardless of the fact that if they continued to touch things they were liable to destroy several months of very expensive work. Even if the Boss-Man was actually a Boss-Lady, the point still stood. It was quite frustrating. "Alright," he said hesitantly, and returned to his work. 

Boss-Lady sighed lightly twice, tapping her fingers absently against the table. "So..." she trailed off meaningfully. 

Edmund didn't like Boss-Men even when they were Boss-Ladies, but the only way to get rid of them was by answering their questions. Sometimes, if he was lucky, they'd even understand the point that he was trying to get across. That was one of the nice things about working with Hank. The other scientist respected things like being in the middle of a delicate task and took no offense to being told, quite firmly, to be quiet. 

"Yes?" Edmund replied. She opened and closed her mouth twice, and Edmund found himself growing quite impatient with her. "Yes?" he repeated. Bosses didn't usually like it when scientists had a smart mouth, but Edmund was very smart; he could no more help his mouth being smart than he could his brain being smart, but people tended to take offense when he said that. 

"Where's Hank?" she asked brightly. Edmund barely held off a sigh of relief as he pointed into the back corner, which had become Hank's resting place. It was kept in a little, out-of-the-way alcove that was just big enough to contain the man, complete with a thick mattress pad and pillows and blankets. Edmund took advantage of it as well. It was nice, to be able to work and rest as one pleased even if it resulted in increasingly strange hours. 

"Oh," she said in a much quieter tone, something almost soft creeping across those vibrant blue features. Edmund pushed up his glasses, reminding himself that grabbing people and studying their skin, no matter how well-intentioned, usually resulted in something being broken. Usually his glasses. Less often, his nose. 

Moving across the ground silently and cautiously, she made her way to where Hank was sleeping. As she drew close, his nose snuffled a little, and he turned over, curling a little more tightly into a ball and shivering a little. Oh, that was right. Hank had told Edmund to keep the heater near himself, hadn't he? Edmund felt he should probably rectify that in a vague, well-meaning sort of way, since it looked like Hank was getting cold. He moved to bring it closer to Hank, but Boss-Lady—Raven—shook her head. 

"We can't have you catching a cold either," she told him with mild amusement. Lifting a blanket that had dropped over the side of the alcove, she draped it gently over Hank's bulky form. "There we go," she murmured with satisfaction. She glanced at Edmund, who stared at her. "He was cold," she defended. 

"Well, we are in a limestone cave system in the middle of British Columbia," Edmund pointed out. 

The shape-shifted shook her head and sighed. "Yes, well," she said testily. Then, in a milder tone, "Let him sleep. When he gets up, tell him I want to have a word with him, but it's not urgent." She stared down at her friend—Edmund thought they were friends, because that's the sort of things friends did for each other, even though sometimes they didn't seem to like each other all that much—and sighed a little. Something passed over her face too quickly for him to see. "You should get some rest too." 

"Later," Edmund said stoutly. 

Raven rolled her eyes. "Scientists," she muttered, and Edmund found something like fondness in her voice. 

"Bosses," he risked retorting blandly. 

Startled, her amber eyes turned to him, and she grinned. 

Edmund rather thought she looked brighter while smiling. 

~*~ 

Hank groaned a little as he woke up, still feeling exhausted despite having slept for a full eight hours, if the clock was anything to go by. He was used to keeping odd hours, and had been doing so for years, but recently even he'd been taxed to his limit. He'd spent his college years getting no more than six hours a night, and once he'd been on his own, he'd gotten even fewer most days. Admittedly, he had crashed more often once he was on his own, too, weary body collapsing under the strain, but it didn't keep him from doing it. He seemed to do his best work at odd hours of the night, when the world was mostly silent around him and the possibilities utterly endless. 

It was no different here in Ithaca. It seemed like his mind was constantly buzzing with new information, with new projects and security measures and plans. As terrible as it was, and as taxing, it was also made Hank feel alive had he rarely had otherwise. So many things required his attention, required his brilliance, required his ingenuity. There were never enough hours in a day for everything he needed, and his list of things that required work grew longer almost hourly. 

It made him feel useful. 

That was a hard feeling to come by, otherwise. 

The nearly fatal mistake that he'd inflicted on himself in his absolute haste to fix himself, to fix that error in his genetic code that he'd thought made him less than human shadowed his every movement. Before, he'd been a human with an animal's instincts, if a particularly bright one who didn't often listen to what his hindbrain desired to say. Now he was just mostly animal instincts, with the human intelligence driving him along despite his own body's best efforts. 

It showed in every line of his body, from the brilliant blue fur— _blue_ , as though the fact that he had fur wasn't an indignity enough!—to the inhumanely gold eyes to the claws that were even now piercing the papers he was attempting to read. It left him more furious and frustrated than he had been in years, when he'd been teased for being a nerd and weak and pale and skinny; never mind the fact that he'd had strength enough for someone in their late teens at the tender age of twelve, and an equal amount of speed. 

The raw emotions didn't help. Before, he'd been shy, painfully so. He'd buried himself as deeply inside his shell as he could manage, involving himself in the relatively uncomplicated mathematical proofs and chemistry needed to build the Blackbird or design a new rocket fuel. It was easier to hide away and prevent the flare of anger that sometimes boiled up in him, or the urge to kiss freely and without remorse, from ever forming in the first place than to fight it. Now, with everything so close to the surface, when the urge to be furious, or bitter, or depressed, or joyful or weary or thrilled or one of a million other emotions it seemed utterly inescapable. 

Hank knew it couldn't be helping that his primary reaction was to hide himself in the lab all over again. It seemed impossible to fight, though. Not when sometimes he just wanted to make things _shatter_ when he saw Erik or Moira's face even when he knew that they hadn't intended to hurt Charles, the first person who'd looked at his feet with awe and unadulterated glee. Even if it had hit him harder at the time, Raven's reaction like a punch in the gut, Charles' easy and unconditional acceptance had also been a balm on a years-old wound. 

So Hank did what he always seemed to do, and run and hid when things got tough and then cursed his cowardice a thousand times over. 

Then there was Raven, walking around in her own skin confidently, easily, as though she expected no less than for everyone around her to accept the blue patterns of her scales as easily as they accepted her ridiculous sense of humor. She was simultaneously a source of hot, wrenching embarrassment and hope, that someday Hank might be able to move with that same devastating grace and act like a human again, instead of an animal with the intelligence of a man. 

For now, though, Hank hid and hated himself for it. 

~*~ 

It was something the others didn't know. If Moira had anything to say about it, they never would know. Of course, they weren't fools, so Moira suspected that they suspected, but no one wanted to give voice to those barely-acknowledged concerns. Things were tenuous enough without such thoughts being voiced, so strained and dangerously near falling apart entirely. No one wanted to wreck the delicate balance and destroy whatever good they'd managed to create by giving such poisonous words substance. 

Given that the question at hand was whether their renegade-Nazi-hunter-come-wild-card-come-leader was torturing the local CIA agent, who would? 

She wished she could state, just for the record, that it wasn't true. 

Well, not exactly true. 

Or maybe it wasn't entirely true? 

After all, psychological torture was still torture after all, but surely it didn't count if she wasn't already thinking it. Lensherr didn't need to lay a single finger on her after that. She gave him the information slowly, grudgingly, wrathfully whenever he bothered to remember she so much as existed, but she did in fact give it and couldn't find it in her to fully regret it. She'd defend her decision and what came of it to the death. 

Still, the words he'd spoken in a hushed and sacred whisper were burned into her skin, under her skin, possibly right through her bone and blood. 

_Break your secrets and your oaths. Kill your loyalty and your hope. Shatter whatever ties you have to your precious government and the people of this country in order to tell me one thing, and one thing only._

_Just tell me what I need to know to keep Charles safe_. 

~*~ 

Rarely had Raven felt so happy to know that in addition to being able to transform physically into anyone she chose, she could mimic their manner of dress with equal ease. Now that she no longer had to maintain her blond-haired persona, she was expending perhaps a quarter of the energy that she'd been using before. It was something they'd discovered early enough, her and Charles, just how much food she had to consume in order to meet the energy expenditure of constantly keeping cover. 

Despite that, however, Raven didn't dare lose her touch by allowing herself to get out of practice. Since she refused to return to being someone she wasn't, she spent her time crafting her clothing instead. It took far more effort to maintain the appearance of clothing on her body than she expected. It didn't require as much sheer energy as a full shape-change, that was true, but there were other considerations to be made. Clothing, especially whenever she tried to make anything based on a non-organic material, fought her. Changing from one form to another was usually mostly a change of muscles and a redistribution of fat, a subtle rearrangement of her bones and the shift in eye color; she had all of the basics already and it was just a matter of modifying them. Making it so that it appeared as though she was wearing an item of clothing that was not a part of her body took a completely different flexibility of her skills. Even something as simple as ensuring that her shirt would wrinkle as it was supposed to when she sat down, for instance, took a steady focus that reminded her why she wore _actual_ clothing while covering herself with the mask of Charles' sister. Nevertheless, taxing though it could be and despite all of the little irritants, designing her own clothing still let her practice her shape-shifting and maintaining it for long periods of time without being as stressful as a full shape change. It was, she thought, a happy balance. 

Furthermore, for the first time in her life, it was _fun_. She got to pick out what colors went well with her natural skin, what cuts she thought flattered her. She'd always been so concerned with being the sweet younger sister of Charles Xavier that she hadn't really thought about what she'd wanted. Charles would have possibly had a panic attack if she wore a skirt shorter than mid-thigh; anything shorter than her knees already made him frown prodigiously at her, as though he was her father, not her foster brother. 

Now she could do it just _because_ she wanted to, _if_ she wanted to. 

Raven didn't, of course. Even she could see that jeans or loose pants would be better suited to the environment around her, and she didn't want anyone looking askance at her for inappropriate clothing. She liked being trusted to handle things around Ithaca, liked knowing that she was the one people usually asked for help even before Erik. She liked being the one that the others looked up to. 

Of course, that didn't mean she didn't occasionally slip up. In a way, the fact that wearing clothing was all about the details was more taxing than she'd expected. In any of her full guises, it wasn't a problem if she took shortcuts by only changing the color of the skin exposed by clothing or keeping the shape of her ears her own if they were covered by hair. There was no hiding if a piece of clothing didn't sit the way it was supposed to on the human body. Nor had it helped that she was used to wearing actual clothing, so it wasn't something she normally thought of. It had led to some very near mishaps, especially in the close quarters of Ithaca. A shirt would lose its color, or automatically turn into a sweater when she felt cold. The buttons on her jeans had a tendency to occasionally migrate, often to completely bizarre locations. Shoes were the one thing that she didn't create for herself, though. She had neither the time nor the patience to create their seeming most of the time since some of the chemical-laden plastics simply refused to cooperate with her, and try as she might, her efforts to create an organic substitute never looked quite right. Still, she was getting better at it and she intended to figure out a way to make it work eventually. 

Naturally, she also had actual physical clothing that she could rely on, for those times when she was too tired to want to practice her skills. They came more often than she had expected; she hadn't fully appreciated the effort it had taken for Charles to essentially raise her, most of the time. Now, though, with her resources almost constantly being stretched thin and her attention divided between a million things, as his had once been, most nights she just wanted to collapse into bed and sleep. 

She stared up at her ceiling, barely warding off sleep in as she wondered what Charles might say about the fact that she remained in her true form unless she was forced by circumstance to change it. He hadn't reacted when she'd come down dressed in the flight suit Hank had made for her with her skin its natural blue hue, but he'd been distracted by other things by then. Rather, it was the memory of Charles' reaction when she'd come down in her true form to the same kitchen in which they'd met that mattered. That was the memory still caught her at odd moments, the absolute rage flaring and stealing her breath. 

The others did it too, occasionally. Raven hoped they didn't mean it, but sometimes she thought she caught them staring at her with something indefinable shifting in their faces, only to be hidden away as soon as they realized that she was looking at them. She hardened her heart to it and continued as if she'd never noticed anything, using her own newly found sense of pride in her appearance to keep her voice even and her features unconcerned. For the first time in her life, she didn't want to blend into the crowd as Charles Xavier's kid sister, with the blond hair and fair skin and bright eyes. Regardless of what any of the rest of them thought—even Erik, or maybe especially Erik—she wasn't going to go back to looking like everyone else. 

She couldn't. 

~*~ 

For a man with a friendship with a telepath of his own, and what seemed so much respect, if not actual like, for their skill, Lensherr was a hypocrite. It was utterly nonsensical to ignore any potential gains from using a telepath's skills to figure out why someone was in a coma. Azazel would be the first to admit that he didn't know how the mind worked, that he didn't even know whether Emma could possibly be successful in her attempts to wake Xavier from his coma. She'd only had a brief exposure to him in Miami, though she had sensed him while they were near Russia in Shaw's submarine. Presumably she'd also gained some understanding of the man's mind when they managed to capture her, though she hadn't offered any details and Azazel hadn't asked. 

Still, Emma had privately assured him that Xavier's mind was singular in a way that no one else's was, even Azazel's. There had been something vaguely apologetic in her tone as she'd spoken to him, insofar as Emma ever bothered to apologize to anyone. He hadn't been bothered by the idea then and wasn't now. It seemed only natural that those who shared the same skill should have a certain inherent affinity for one another. If there was even the slightest chance that Emma could help, Azazel couldn't see why Lensherr wasn't leaping at the chance. Azazel would have, in his position, and the fury of Lensherr's unequivocal refusal burned beneath the teleporter's skin. 

In part, at least, Azazel could admit that it was fury for his own sake, for having his suggestion discarded as unworthy of so much as a minute's consideration. He had grown accustomed to having his ideas regarded as equal with the plans made by others, and it had spoiled him. Shaw's plans had been none but his own, despite some of Emma's efforts to the contrary, but here Azazel had allowed himself to be deluded into thinking his opinion mattered. 

The rest of him, however, was genuinely offended on Emma's behalf. She was given to far more subtle pursuits, to coaxing people with her body as much as her mind, turning herself into a weapon in all possible ways. It was something that Azazel had been able to appreciate from the first days that he had met the woman. Demonic though his own appearance was, he'd carefully cultivated his own aura of danger and destruction as carefully as Emma had cultivated her own sexual appeal. The raw materials had been there in both cases, but they'd made of themselves what was necessary to function in a world where they were just different enough to be fools not to avail themselves of every advantage. 

Then, ruefully, Azazel sighed, the anger he'd been harboring easing slightly. It was equally foolish for these people to allow an enemy who could tamper with their minds into their midst, even Azazel could admit that. Azazel and his skills could be controlled or defeated, if necessary. They would be able to do neither to Emma's talents, for all she preferred subtly to more open movement in most cases. 

That thought made him wince. Shaw had been many things, but subtle had not been one of them. Of all the people that Emma could have allied herself with, Azazel would have put Shaw at the bottom of the list. Still, he hadn't pressed for Emma's motives any more than she'd pressed for his own; Emma's pet project had always been the Hellfire Club anyways. Azazel knew without her saying that she'd only brought Shaw in as a face for the other wealthy, powerful, white men to meet. All of the finances, the planning, and the choice of members were her own work. Emma was the master of the delicate touch when she needed it, even if Shaw had directed her with a heavy hand. 

It made Azazel wish he understood what had made Emma stay with him for so long though, and then thought for a moment of his own motivation for joining Shaw and bared his teeth. 

Sometimes, the world just needed to burn. 

~*~ 

Sean thought he knew winters, before he'd gone to Langley and then Westchester with the Prof. After all, Boston was not exactly known for its benign weather in the end of December, which it was now, over two months since Sean had stepped onto the Blackbird without any real expectation of coming back in one piece. 

Compared to the chill of winter in British Columbia, and in the mountains of the northern Rockies at that, Boston was practically Texas, complete with heat waves. Sean took a step or two outside the solid walls of Ithaca and shuddered against the blustery wind. Hank, in his usual odd-genius way, had cobbled together a flight suit from the remnants of his old one but layered with several layers of thermal fabric to prevent Sean from catching hypothermia while he was out soaring the skies. Sean didn't ask too closely about where the materials had come from any more than he asked when Hank had found the time to do it. 

The first was because he knew better than to ask questions that he didn't want to know the answer to; stealing was wrong no matter the cause, or was supposed to be, and the Irish Catholic in him wanted to plug his ears and shout, "La la la!" at the top of his lungs. Better that he be able to profess his own innocence. He didn't want to know that they'd stolen something for him, for his benefit, to let him up into the skies again. It went beyond that though, into this whole mutant vs. humans conspiracy that Erik was instigating, the one that Sean didn't know how to describe or deal with yet. Erik seemed to think it was only right that they steal to defend themselves—Sean wasn't so sure, and wasn't about to risk Erik's anger by pointing that out to him. 

The second part was because of Hank himself. Sean wasn't going to offend the man and hurt his already injured confidence by refusing the gift no matter where it came from, on the grounds that Hank had probably dedicated hours to making sure Sean could use it reliably once more. Sean had eyes, and it wasn't difficult to see how Hank was driving himself into the ground and had been ever since his ill-fated attempt to change his appearance as though being able to provide aid with his intelligence was the only thing keeping them from exiling him. Sean snorted at the thought. As if. They'd have never been able to do a quarter of this stuff if it weren't for Hank. Sean had already spent more of his teen years baked than was altogether good for him, and he could see it. 

Hank wasn't the only one that Sean had made an inadvertent study of, either; Sean so often slid beneath their notice that it was easy to read their worries. From Erik's quiet, simmering frustration that the man didn't even seem to be aware of most of the time to the way Alex would jump at shadows as though hungry ghosts were waiting for him. Some of Raven's wildness had been tempered but she spent too much of her time trying to be the Prof and boss them around even when they didn't want or need her help. Moira was too busy avoiding Erik to be of any real use, even if she had shared some of her practical knowledge with Alex, Hank and Sean himself. Azazel had shut himself off again after Erik's flare of temper over Emma, and the mutants they'd picked up in Shaw's facility seemed to want nothing more than to melt into the background. 

And Sean himself—he'd noticed the way the languid haze and easy fun he'd enjoyed most of his life had all but disappeared, leaving behind someone shaken and unsure, the foundations of his world rocked and too timid to say something about it. He groaned a little, wishing he could go back to the days when he was just one of half a dozen Cassidy red-heads getting beneath his mama's feet until she smacked them all with a wooden spoon and sent them outside to roughhouse. 

This was his second best choice, though, to continue to take the flying apparatus that Hank had concocted in good faith and reach for the skies, escaping the tension and petty conflicts and anxiety that too often filled the space of Ithaca, with Charles' coma hanging over all of them like a pall. Letting out a scream, Sean turned his face into the biting wind and let it blow his troubles from his mind, if only for a time. 

~*~ 

"Ally, give me a hand?" Amelia asked, beckoning the other doctor over with a gesture. "I can't lift him alone." 

Ally made an absent, humming noise, and then came over, quickly adjusting Xavier to prevent the bed sores. They were becoming old hands at this, and even Amelia had to admit that they weren't getting along too poorly without nurses. It probably helped, in part, that Amelia had spent the better part of three years being treated as a substitute nurse before her hard-won skills forced the imbecilic men around her to see reason. 

With their task done, Ally returned to where she'd been working, opening a new box of catheters and giving them a cursory check. They appeared to pass the test, because Ally set them to the corner of the room that they'd designated for all of the medical supplies that were in use, from various IV bags to the catheters to the small weights they'd been using as part of an improvised physiotherapy to keep Xavier from losing too much muscle while his body remained inert. 

Amelia watched her work for a moment or two, leaning at the foot of the bed. "Do you ever think about leaving?" Ally asked suddenly, without looking up from the next box that she was rummaging through, her voice thoughtful. "I mean, we thought we'd be around for what, three months? With my skills, he'd have been mostly healed, and it wouldn't have been that hard to find someone willing to do physiotherapy with him a few times a week in a private location, if they weren't willing to bring them here. With this, though, with him in this coma, we don't know when he'd wake up. If he'll wake up. Unless we can find someone to take our place and take care of him, though, I don't think Lensherr would let us go." 

The question struck Amelia rather harder than she was expecting. It wasn't that she didn't think about it, sometimes, when she was staring at the dim rock ceiling and wishing for nothing more than the ability to curl up in front of a television with perhaps some hot chocolate, thick and warm, and relax. She'd done that before, after a long day's work before Shaw had come along with an offer he wouldn't allow her to refuse. Sometimes it seemed like all she'd done was drag herself from one madman's path and into another, and all for an idiotic oath that no doctor on the planet would have shunned her for breaking, had they known the circumstances. 

Still, it wasn't like sweet Alice to bring questions like this up. She had always been more of a live and let live, never stirring up trouble like some of the others were wont to do, always as kind as she was able to be. Amelia sometimes wondered if it was part of Ally's gift—her mutation, Lensherr had termed it with such surety—to have this sort of kind understanding. She mostly figured it was Ally herself, since the woman hadn't ever mentioned such a thing being an aspect of her healing. 

Belatedly, she answered, "I try not to think about it at all, these days," with rather more honestly than she'd been planning on using. Ally looked at her, expression curious, but not pushing. She was asking for answers rather than demanding them. It was one of the things that made Ally easy to talk to, even for someone as easily irritated and stubborn as Amelia knew she could be. 

"I fought my family so long over me going to medical school. They wanted me to marry, have children, live the life they only thought would make me happy." Amelia shrugged. "I worked hard to get my degree, and then went back to school in order to prove that I'm a perfectly reliable surgeon who is every inch as capable as everyone else in the field." She treated her friend to a brief smile. "I could say I'm just as stubborn about this as I was about everything else in my life." She sobered. "But mostly, I just can't walk away from this guy as long as I can help him." 

Ally grinned at that, one of the rare ones that made the corners of her eyes crinkle up. "You are such a wonderful person." Amelia opened her mouth to protest, but Ally winked at her. "I agree, though. You have to want to make people better in order to go through all the work of medical school, at least on some level." 

"The money doesn't hurt," Amelia added only a little dryly. 

"The money doesn't hurt," Ally agreed with a little laugh. Even as a GP, she'd had no problem working steadily and getting paid well for it. "It never does. But I have to admit, I also wanted to know what kind of person can keep a cat like Lensherr happy enough to stick around through all this." 

Amelia groaned. "Please, no not the slang. You do know how ridiculous you sound, don't you?" 

"Say you think I'm wrong about Lensherr, and I'll tell you I sound ridiculous," Ally retorted placidly. When Amelia said nothing, Ally turned completely, contemplating the bed that held the still held the comatose telepath. "I hope he wakes up," she whispered into the sudden silence. "I know the others don't like to talk about him with any of us, the ones that were in that facility or Azazel, but there's this..." she wrinkled her nose as she thought, "hope. There's this constant sense of hope when they talk about him, like they have all this faith in him." 

"Well, they told us he's a telepath," Amelia couldn't help pointing out, though she too stared down at Xavier. "And a dangerously strong one at that." Amelia didn't voice her own fears where telepathy was concerned. Shaw's right hand woman Frost had put enough fear in all of them, at one time or another, for all she'd never done anything overt. She'd never even been anything less than polite, technically, but she had the most disconcerting habit of responding to one's questions or comments before you even thought to give voice to them. Amelia shuddered a little at the memory. 

"Then doesn't it make it all the more curious?" Ally pressed. "Even Azazel seemed to be the only one that chose to spend time around Frost." 

Amelia sighed. "I suppose," she acknowledged reluctantly. "Either way, though, just call it a medical mystery and put it out of your mind. No point in getting all hung up on Mr. Comatose. I thought you'd have more sense, than to invent possible lives for a coma patient." 

"Well," Ally murmured, sounding the driest that Amelia had ever heard, "it isn't as though there's a television for us to watch." The thought of it, what Ally was suggesting, startled Amelia into laughing longer and harder than she had in years. With a flourish, Amelia conceded the point. 

~*~ 

Sometimes, Alex thought about his younger brother. More than sometimes, really. He thought about him every time he looked at the Prof who was still under the sheets; he couldn't seem to help it. Scott had been so young, when their parents were killed in that plane crash and then he'd been so still and quiet in the bed. Scott had been dwarfed in the same manner the Prof was, looking small when in real life, when awake, when _alive_ they had always seemed so much bigger. 

It made him regret his decision to leave his brother like the social workers said to. He was young, the better part of a decade younger than Alex, and someone would take Scott where they wouldn't take Alex. It was better, they said, to give him his best chance in the system. So he'd let himself be taken away, placed in an orphanage, dropped into the same cheerless system that would probably swallow Scott alive. He hadn't even asked too many questions about what happened to Scott after he'd left, hadn't really questioned when he was going to wake up, if he was going to be okay. He hadn't asked anything, something like shame and sadness thick in his chest. 

Eight years...no, it was nine years at least. That was how far apart they were. Alex tried to remember Scott's birthday, guilt welling up in him when he couldn't quite manage it. Sometime in April, in the early spring, wasn't it? Alex had to believe it was, because it was hard enough to remember the way Scott's dark hair had stood on end when awoke too early or the fact that he disliked bananas. He had barely more memories of Scott than he did of his parents. 

Alex wondered how different things had turned out, if he'd fought for his brother, his only family. If he'd decided to stay. 

Alex was staying now. Was going to stay now, was going to stay with this new, fledgling family. 

And someday, maybe the Prof would help him track down his brother. 

~*~ 

The thing about it—the thing about the entire situation that really got to her, if she was being honest—was that Moira had spent most of her life being an outsider. The oldest sibling with three brothers and a father who came back from the war she was just old enough to be properly terrified by, altered into someone she only barely recognized. Not that he was anything less than good to them—just distant, worn, cold, like the conditions of Europe had necessitated the warmth being sapped from his body. For so long, work had fallen to her mother and even after the war, with her father still recovering from injuries sustained during battle, it was more Moira's job than her mother's to make sure that her brothers were fed and washed and tucked in at night. 

She learned to be tough from them, for them, _made_ them listen to her by virtue of being cleverer, faster, sharper (and only very occasionally, stronger). She loved them, fiercely, loved her parents too despite all of their many faults and just as many of her own, but it didn't leave much time for parties with friends, or a desire to spend and laugh and relax just because they could now, because the war was over and things were supposed to be good now, whole now. 

Then, ending up in the CIA because she couldn't seem to _stop_ being clever, and fast, and sharp, even though all her boyfriends had tried, with rather little success, to guide her down the path of the happy housewife greeting her husband with a glass of something alcoholic after a long, hard day's work. Her temper would fray, sooner before later, and after a while it wasn't even worth it to try. She had enough struggle dealing with proving to the CIA that her fuck-ups couldn't be blamed on her lack of penis any more than her partner's successes could be based on the presence of his. The last thing Moira was interested in doing was coming home to more of the same. She wanted to rest, to relax, to be handed her own damn alcoholic drink, thanks all the same. 

Moira usually had to settle for mixing it up herself. 

Then, for the first time, to be treated—well, not as a man, not as just another agent, but certainly as at least generally capable in her own right (barring Charles' ill-fated seduction attempt in Agent Hudson's facility, a notion which she prided herself on disabusing instantly and thoroughly, if his reaction was anything to go by). It was refreshing, to relay a piece of information and have Lensherr squint at her suspiciously for her job rather than because she was a woman. Especially because she knew that Charles would chastise him gently for any suspicion at all. 

Moira ran her hands over her collar, as was becoming her habit these days, and the hostile smirk that crossed her face felt out of place given her normally remarkably even temper. She'd had to develop one, because it never served any purpose to let people know exactly how unsettled she was by their screams of how she was ruining their lives (her brothers); their demands to stop being such a stubborn bitch (boyfriends #2, 3 and 5); or insidious comments of just how good her breasts looked beneath the neat, professional jacket she wore to work (pretty much every man in the CIA, or so it seemed). As her fingers ran across the almost smooth metal, she wondered if Lensherr knew that he'd kept the engraving on her dog-tags intact. She wondered if it was supposed to remind her that no matter what, she was always the outsider. 

As if she needed Lensherr's handiwork to remind her. That had been made perfectly clear, after all, though Hank had been bumbling and awkward and conciliatory when he'd finally spoken to her. Though she'd put on a good face, it hadn't changed the fact that it had taken Hank three days, without having even told her that he was supposed to awaken from the sedatives in the first place, to reveal that Charles was in a coma.


	10. Balancing Act

_Charles rolled himself into the ground floor room that he'd claimed as his own now that he was unable to make his way up stairs any longer. In the face of so many other necessary repairs and changes to make parts of this old, drafty house a proper home for school, an elevator for Charles' convenience had never made it high on the list of mandatory changes. He could make do with his new room, reclaimed and refurbished for his requirements._

_In a way, it was good. A fresh start. There were no memories of him and Raven curled up beneath the old, worn sheets of his bed, trying to terrify each other wish ghost stories and falling asleep in each other's arms to ward off nightmares from the self-same nightmarish tales. Charles' room had always been as much Raven's space as his own, the one place in the house besides the room they'd constructed for her that didn't make her feel like an interloper. Erik had rarely stepped past the threshold of the room, preferring to meet Charles on more neutral ground, but Charles hadn't been able to stop himself from sensing the curiosity Erik had repressed. Erik had looked around him at Charles' domain with greedy eyes when he thought Charles was paying him no mind, cataloguing the pictures, primary of him and Raven but a few with him as a child with his father. His gaze traced the overflowing bookshelves, the posters and pretty rocks and strange masks that Charles had collected during a childhood as much formed by outdoor escapades to avoid his family as intellectual pursuits._

_While some of his things—books, mostly, if he was to be honest, but also some of his clothing and a few pictures—had migrated down the stairs, the vast majority of it remained untouched by anyone, something that Charles rather preferred. Like Erik and Raven's rooms, his own was meant to be entered only by those who understood._

_Charles firmly shut the door behind him when he was inside. The boys were well meaning and earnest in their own ways, but they had yet to learn that sometimes it was necessary to mourn. Charles' room was his one stronghold, where they did not disturb him without his consent. Elsewhere in the house he was theirs first and foremost; ready to lend a listening ear or a kind word or well-reasoned advice. In here, he could struggle with his disability and all of the frankly harrowing practicalities that came with it, could cry for Erik's sake and for Raven's and for the mutants and people he'd already met or would meet that would be swept up in this conflict. He could be less than patient or just or gentle here and rake himself over the coals for his errors. In the mornings he could collect himself in peace, without questioning eyes or demands on his time, something for which he was exceedingly grateful. He could be human, with all of its failings and trappings._

_It probably said something about Charles that he chose not to spend all that much time in his room._

_Charles made his way to the bathroom slowly, haltingly. Hank had been wonderful, creating a large bathroom in which Charles could easily maneuver and attaching it to his bedroom. The final suite was even more distinguished than the master suite two floors up, in Charles' opinion. After he rolled himself in, he stopped on the tiles after a moment in order to rotate his shoulders. He was finally beginning to build up real muscle in his arms and chest again, but it was slow going and his arms usually started aching somewhere mid-afternoon. His physical therapist had coached him not to rush his recovery, but Charles was no less stubborn now than he had been before the accident and tended to push himself as far as possible whenever he had the opportunity to do so._

_All over again, when he saw the shower_ / _bathtub combination that Hank had built, Charles couldn't help smiling just a little in appreciation. After intense debate of the best mechanics given Charles' injury, Hank had custom created bathtub with a seat at the same height as Charles' chair that could be raised or lowered by pressing a button to sit flush to the rest of the tub. Should he wish to shower instead of bathe, Hank had installed a low showerhead that Charles could position as he pleased._

_It had made long, warm showers, which Charles had feared to be a thing of the past, possible. There was something undeniably wonderful about being able to slowly and methodically rinse away the troubles of the day in order to emerge fresh and clean. It was more of a comfort than he'd thought it would be, even when Hank had first mentioned the idea when he'd started making the plans to redesign the ground floor room into a suite that was all Charles' own._

_Charles tilted his face up into the spray, crossly shook off any memories of shockingly cold ocean water instead of warm fresh water, and rinsed the last of the shampoo from his hair. Shutting off the water and letting it drain away, Charles reached out for a towel and carefully began drying himself off, before slinging it across the back of the chair and sliding his body along the seat._

_It seemed almost inevitable that he should slip._

_Slip he did, hand going out from under him and sending his body tumbling sideways, and he just barely managed to pitch himself out of the tub instead of into the wall of the tub. Instead, his body crashed into his chair, which was sent rolling backwards before smacking into the sink._

_Charles lay where he was for a moment or two, in pain and breathing hard before he tried to collect his thoughts and figure out what to do next. He closed his eyes, fighting back the sudden upwelling of fear and fury. He could ask for help. It would be but a moment for one of the boys to come to his rooms, to help right him. Their eyes would go tight with fear and worry until he was put to rights, and they would hover over him for the rest of the evening, trying to determine if he really was fine, but they would help him without question or censure. He could rely on them, could let them support him and take care of him._

_Charles couldn't stop the thought from washing over him, however:_ If I cannot take care of myself, how can I care for the children that will be placed in this school, beneath my watch, my guidance, my hope? 

_Slowly, already feeling the bruises that would be sure to mark his skin within hours, he tried to right himself. It was more difficult than he suspected, considering how he was constantly forced to stop and adjust his legs, pulling or pushing them this way and that in order to get to a position where he could support himself. Taking a deep breath, once he was finally on his front, he put all thoughts of pride or vanity out of his head._

_Then he began the slow crawl forward._

_Already sore muscles started to protest. Here was the proof that he really had been pushing himself too far. In part because of the fact that his body was wasted and thin even now, several months after his accident, just dragging himself across the tiled floor seemed like an insurmountable distance. The chair was one thing, especially when he could use its own momentum to control it. Now, however, he was relying on his upper body strength completely to drag the unfeeling weight of his lower body and legs._

_Gritting his teeth, he fought through it. He might pay for it in the morning, but the sense of accomplishment of getting into the chair on his own would outweigh the prickling heat of embarrassment that was coursing through his veins at the moment. He came up beside the chair and pushed it so that the back of the chair sat flush to the sink. That way it wouldn't roll out from under him while he was trying to get in it. Eyeing it cautiously, Charles tried to figure out the best way to lift himself into the chair. Everything he could think of seemed to require some manner of awkward twisting that was as liable to send him to the floor as the initial slip had._

_He rested his chin on his hands, peering up at his chair critically. It seemed like every option required him to brace himself, on some level or another, using his legs. Except—ah. There, if he was strong enough to manage it. He pushed himself up, supporting himself using the wheels and legs of the chair. Pausing, leaning his chest against the seat of the chair, he used his free hand to bring his legs up beneath him. He couldn't use them to brace himself, but he would be able to use it as leverage to help lift his body._

_He settled down for a moment on his calves, rested both hands on the seat, and closed his eyes, inhaling and exhaling slowly. Then, as fast as he could managed, he lifted himself up and towards his chair. His muscles burned and shrieked their protest, but he managed to get himself high enough to twist and settle onto the seat. Well, mostly settled, since his hand was still twisted awkwardly beneath him, leading to another minute's scrabbling as he tried to get himself properly seated. He was so used to being able to counterbalance himself with his legs that he flailed wildly for a minute before he was able to get himself into the chair as he was meant to._

_Charles fought for his breath for a few moments, chest heaving. He wiped a little at his brow with the back of his hand, shoulders tense and knotted. His hands shook against the skin of his forehead, trembling faintly with exertion and adrenaline. His muscles would protest his ill treatment of them in the morning, and he might have to ask for help then but—he'd done it. He could not regret it, could not despair at the pain he'd be experiencing in the morning._

_He'd done it himself._

_For the first time, victory seemed to be within his grasp._

_Charles had become something more of a realist, since that disastrous day in Cuba (he wondered, sometimes if Erik would have been pleased by the notion or whether he would still complain that Charles hadn't become enough of a realist). He knew that there were many dark days ahead of them, when Professor X and his students would find themselves facing Magneto, Mystique and their mutant allies. That day would come, and others, equally hard, would match themselves beside it and claw at Charles' heart._

_Charles still allowed himself to count this moment, here, as a victory nevertheless._

~*~ 

Erik pulled open the door to Charles' room absently, his brain still feeling fuzzy despite having downed two cups of coffee thus far. Raven in particular liked to tease him about his addiction; she'd asked him how he'd managed to follow Schmidt all these years if he wasn't properly awake until he'd been out of bed for at least an hour and had finished a minimum of two cups of coffee. He'd told her, point blank and in an irritated tone that thinking someone was trying to kill you was an excellent motivator for waking up. He hadn't put any particular emphasis on the words, but she'd blanched a little bit, skin going a little bit ashen. 

Charles, however, had simply looked strangely satisfied, and nothing that Erik had done, from threats to coaxes, had made Charles relinquish the information that had made him so smug. Erik had finally given it up as one of the many secrets that he'd never be able to pry from Charles and had made the best peace he could with it. 

Of the many things Erik was expecting to find inside the room, Alex wasn't one of them. 

Somehow, surprisingly, he didn't often run into the younger mutants of Ithaca in Charles' room. He wasn't sure if it was coincidence, luck, active avoidance or a combination of all three, but he was far more likely to find Cooper or Wright inside than even Raven or Charles' other students. "Oh," he said shortly, stopping and backing up immediately. Though he'd wanted to check in on Charles, he didn't want to intrude on Alex; the tacit rule was whoever was there first had the priority. Erik could get some work done and come back in an hour. "Sorry," he added belatedly, going to close the door behind him. 

"No, no!" Alex assured him, standing. He looked up at Erik, trying a smile that looked thin. "I was just wrapping up here. I'll head out." He shrugged a little, but the expression was so very apathetic that Erik found himself taking a closer look at the young man. 

"No, don't let me disturb you," Erik said. "I have other things I to do." 

Alex shrugged again, and this time he looked past Erik, face wan. "Whatever," he muttered crossly, and went to push by Erik. 

Exasperation surged and he grabbed Alex's arm. "What's your problem?" he demanded harshly, grip firm. "I was just trying to be polite. You," he swallowed, and he knew the words came out a little grudging, but they did come, "You have every right to be here as I do." They'd been so childish, so blissfully naïve that it was almost painful when he'd first met them. Even Alex, arguably the one with the most practical experience from his years in jail, was still so young in most of the ways that counted. Charles' fascination with them, with their powers, hadn't been something Erik had understood beyond just whether they were practical or not. Schmidt wasn't a man that could be defeated by teens who hadn't endured half of the horrors he had, hadn't developed half of his hardness. It wasn't until weeks into the training, when he saw them occasionally (and very carefully) jesting with even him, when he saw the brightness and liveliness that they brought into rooms with them, that Erik began to truly comprehend what Charles meant when he'd murmured that these people were the start of the future. 

Alex turned his face to way, mouth tightening up. "Yeah," he agreed, but he didn't sound like he believed it. He didn't wrench his arm from Erik's grip either, though. 

Just because they'd grown on him, their wit and steadiness in the face of Schmidt and his cohort, the absolute trust they'd shown him and Charles, didn't make them any easier to understand. They were more complex than he wanted to admit, and he didn't have Charles' easy manner with them. He'd first thought it in Schmidt's facility but the past three months had only accentuated his conclusion that he didn't know how to handle them. 

Point and case: at the end of December, just before Charles had been taken off the sedatives, they'd gifted him with what Raven had cheerfully termed, "Chrismukkah, since we weren't really sure when Hanukkah was, and besides we didn't know if we're supposed to get you gifts, but, anyways," she took a deep breath and shoved a package at Erik. "Here. We hope you like it." Then they'd all escaped before Erik could do more than blink dumbly at them. 

It had been a copy of T.H. White's _The Once and Future King_. It wasn't to his usual taste—to be perfectly honest, he usually preferred novels more along the line of _Frankenstein_ or the Lovecraftian mythos or even _The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde_. The human psyche, twisted and disturbing as it could be, was an area of absolute fascination for Erik. Charles had read most of them, and though he'd agreed that they were all worth the time spent, he'd found them too macabre. 

Erik had seen this very book in Charles' study, however, and the telepath had talked about how much he'd enjoyed it with apparent enthusiasm. That was enough for Erik to trace one hand down the front cover of the novel, feeling the smooth paper beneath his fingers and to feel something like gratitude in his chest. 

"You know," Erik began awkwardly, clearing his throat, "You're...uh, a good kid." 

Alex flinched at the sound, hunching his shoulders. "I wish," he rasped, and this time he did pull himself free from Erik's arm, turning and disappearing down the hallway before Erik even realized that something had gone horribly awry. 

He stared at his own hand in confusion, as though it was the limb, and not the mind behind it, that had caused Alex to hurry off. His shoulders drooped, and he rubbed at his eyes. Another defeat for the tally, it seemed. Well, he could track Alex down later, after he'd had a little bit of time to cool down. Or maybe Erik could get Raven to smooth things over, even if he didn't know what had gone wrong. It was better than screwing up more thoroughly than he already had. 

He sighed heavily and then fully passed into Charles' room and took the chair that Alex had been gingerly perched on. He stared at Charles, senseless frustration building in him, before he snapped, "I'm never going to understand them," and glared at Charles like he expected the man to explain the inconceivable thought process behind the scowl. When Charles didn't answer, Erik stalked back out. 

It was back to the kitchen, then, for another cup of coffee and then to go over the latest batch of reports that Raven had compiled. They didn't dare risk simply sending Azazel into various government facilities and hoping for the best, since he'd have to search out any relevant information by hand. It was too risky that he'd either miss something critical or be found, tipping the government's hand as to what they were up to. With MacTaggert's information coming in bits and pieces, guarded at best and near indecipherable at worst, he wasn't going to let anyone act on it until Raven, disguised as everything from secretaries to janitors was able to investigate where the information they were after was being held. It was a slow-moving process, since Raven alone could do the nitty-gritty work. Of course, Raven wasn't completely alone in her efforts, even if she was the only one actually going into the facilities. He'd set Alex to wire taps and Sean to do some aerial reconnaissance of general security, but even that could only help speed up the process so much. 

As he was just leaving the kitchen, he heard a small _bang_ that made the cavern walls shake for a terrible moment. For a precious moment, he wondered if it had been an earthquake or an avalanche, something natural. Then he heard voices down the hall. Hank and Chandler stumbled out of the lab, thick black smoke rolling out with them as they choked. As soon as it reached him, Erik began coughing just as they had. Holding a hand up in front of his face, he tried to keep the worse of the smoke out, and with his powers, reached down the corridor to where the main entrance sat and sliding open the solid door with his powers. The last thing he needed this morning was to die either of asphyxiation or the toxins that were surely present in the noxious fumes. 

"Did something _die_?" Erik asked in a near shout to be heard over the coughing and shouts. He wasn't some melodramatic teen, but he couldn't help the outrage in his voice. It really did smell like something was busy decomposing in the lab. 

"Oh, God," Raven said, coming out of her own room and looking thoroughly nauseous. "Seriously, what did you guys do?" Her hair, which was normally slicked back out of her face, was standing on end, and she was in a loose, comfortable t-shirt and flannel pants. She hadn't even bothered to grab a robe despite the pervasive chill that was always present in Ithaca. She squinted at them as though she was expecting them to do something other than cough. Raven was no more of a morning person than Erik was, but she indulged herself and slept in to what she termed a reasonable hour most mornings; while Erik was up most mornings by six or seven, Raven flatly refused to budge until eight. Even then, she complained bitterly about it until she was awake enough to function properly, a process which required copious amounts of coffee. 

Hank and Chandler, having stumbled outside to avoid the worst of the smoke, came back in with their lab coats held over their noses and their eyes watering. With the exception of Wright, Cooper and Charles himself, who were positioned securely down the corridor and well out of the smoke's range, everyone else evacuated Ithaca so that the scientists could set up some fans to draw the air out. This hadn't been the first time some experiment went poorly and it wouldn't be the last, but Erik couldn't help the throb of anger under his skin. They were vulnerable standing out in the open air like this and he was constantly worried that Charles would be exposed to some strange chemical that would have him bleeding from the eyeballs or something else equally drastic and dangerous. Never mind the fact that Hank and Chandler would be held up for hours, if not a day or two, trying to restore order and replace whatever they'd been working on when the explosion occurred. 

On one level, Erik understood that there were risks to any scientific advancement. 

On another, his feet were freezing and the same fans that were blowing all the smoke out were taking what warm air they had managed to amass with them. 

Erik didn't really like the cold. 

He blamed his response on the chill that had sunk into his bones when Hank had finally rushed over to apologize and make sure that everyone was alright—a response that had mostly been composed of curses, epithets against Hank's wellbeing, general grumpiness and possibly one or two words to make sure Hank and Chandler hadn't suffered undue damage. Hank had looked a mixture of offended, irritated, upset and tense by the time Erik was done, but he hadn't actually torn Erik's head off, so the metallokinetic decided that it could be counted as a win. 

Of course, Raven and Sean had both treated him to glowers on their way back inside, so Erik gave himself partial credit for effort and followed them inside with a grimace of his own. 

With something approaching exasperation, he thought, _Seriously, when the hell did I sign up to be a child minder?_

Ignoring any and all attempts at conversation, Erik chose to spend the rest of the day going over everything from their finances to the latest batch of Raven's reports and notes. Hank was fully capable of cleaning up his own mess; if he really needed someone to help him that much, Erik would send Sean or Alex, or maybe the both of them, to join him. They tended to slack off whenever Erik wasn't keeping an eye on them anyways, and Erik was tired of telling them to find something useful to occupy themselves with whenever he came across them dancing to a record or squabbling over whose turn it was to clean the bathroom. Sometimes, Erik suspected that it was as though none of the others—Raven included—knew that any moment they might be discovered or tracked or otherwise betrayed. 

By the time he resurfaced, having worked out his aggression, his stomach was protesting the fact that he'd been ignoring it for a while. He stood, stretching out his limbs from where he'd been hunched over the small metal desk he'd made for himself and the narrow, inflexible chair. It wasn't the most comfortable place he'd worked in before, but neither was it the least. Still, his muscles were tight after a long day sitting and single-mindedly slogging through the work that awaited him and he took a moment to stretch. 

Perhaps he would head outside a little later, properly warded against the cold this time, and work on his powers. While he was still in the habit of little mindless things just to flex his powers—creating balls with leftover scrap metal and juggling them without using his hands and the like—he hadn't done anything like the utterly exhilarating and exhaustive movement of the satellite or submarine. Ithaca had neither the space nor the resources to cater to such practice. In the light of this, he found himself urging the others as Charles had once urged him: to find the delicacy and finite control with themselves so as to do things smarter, not harder—to find the most efficacious method, rather than simply shoving power at things. 

Even that, however, was a test in patience, or so it sometimes seemed. Erik twisted a little, cracking his back as he made a face at the last time Alex had tried to practice "delicate and finite control". Apparently, the plasma that Alex controlled was hot enough to make stone more malleable than stone had any right to be. While he'd proved on the beach that even without Hank's energy directed aid he was capable of directing the blasts, there was a long distance between merely directing it and summoning up varying levels of power. Or even summoning the plasma disks in different places on his body. Assuming all of that was even possible. 

Erik rubbed at his face. Charles was the scientist and teacher, not him. Right now, the only thing that Erik wanted to teach was his stomach how to stop growling. 

Food, then. 

While they did usually try to do some sort of communal meal several times a week, the fact of the matter was that not all of them _could_ cook. Alex was barely capable of making toast without accidentally having something blow up in his face, Hank was better versed in take-out than anyone else Erik had ever known, Raven's cooking often had inexplicable things in it, Chandler barely understood that just because chicken was brown on the outside didn't mean it was done and Erik sometimes just felt lucky that Azazel was using a fork and knife. 

They'd tried to do the same while they were at the Xavier household, since there was no sense in alerting the whole neighborhood they were around by having food delivered to the house or having someone brought in to cook. Enjoyment of food was one of the little things that Charles had been surprised to find he'd shared with Erik. Charles, stumbling and blushing had admitted that he'd expected Erik to be a little more pragmatic when it came to how food tasted. 

In a move that had even surprised himself, Erik laughed; clearly Charles had been expecting offense at the preconceived notion that Erik would have no discerning tastes when it came to food. Not that Charles was wrong, exactly. Erik would eat whatever was put in front of him. It was just that given a choice, he would eat things like fresh fruit or a lightly prepared fish with far more relish. It was perhaps one of the few carnal pleasures that he enjoyed; food helped the body remain strong, and food that tasted good was a mental as well as physical restorative. 

Of course, they weren't all terrible. Though Sean had only a rudimentary knowledge of cooking, he was quick enough to translate the skills that he did have into easy meals. It meant a lot of pasta and casseroles, but it was still better fare than most of what Erik had eaten. Cooper was much the same; perhaps not the most accomplished person in the kitchen, but more than capable of holding her own. It was Erik himself and, surprisingly, Wright who truly understood the culinary arts, however. Wright was capable of any number of dishes, all of which Erik had enjoyed. From the little bits that Erik had pieced together, Wright had grown up cooking and while she didn't enjoy the art it didn't stop her from using her skills wisely. Erik hadn't grown up cooking, but he had endured long stretches of time where he'd been on his own, sometimes in remote territory. Cooking had kept him occupied and out of his own head, letting him recapture some of that time when his mother had been a dominating presence in the kitchen, which in and of itself had always seemed to be filled with good smells. Erik knew he was probably just amplifying it in his memory, since they'd barely been rich enough to afford meat once a week, but his mother remained an excellent cook at least within the confines of his mind. 

Tonight, however, was not one of those nights. Erik found himself rummaging around in the kitchen, which was increasingly actually looking like a kitchen. He found less than he'd hoped. A can of soup, some leftover casserole. Pasta. One of the indefinable meats Azazel favored. With a groan, Erik took the soup, the last of the bread and some cheese and toasted it all gently in a pan, before eating it with the soup. It was quiet, thankfully, and when Erik finally took a look at his watch, he knew why. It was nearer to nine than to eight. Now that he was aware of the time, all of his tiredness hit him at once as he slowly made his way through the food. A low headache that he'd ignored since it started brewing when Hank's bitter and cloying disaster had spread through the halls came back in full force and he was grateful for the dim lights. 

Erik wondered briefly if he should be worried; after all, quiet usually indicated plotting on some level from the younger mutants, though Cooper and Wright were too distinguished to allow themselves to get involved in everyone else's petty squabbles. He decided to take the silence as a blessing and nursed a glass for water for a good twenty minutes after he'd finished eating. Coffee would keep him up, strung out, he wasn't touching tea with a ten foot pole, and alcohol wasn't something they'd chosen to keep around. 

Still, he hadn't thought himself so lost in thought that when Raven found him he started a little at the sudden intrusion. He straightened, composing himself and his expression the second he realized she was around. "What happened? What do you need?" he asked shortly. 

Raven was silent, but she bustled around the kitchen for a few moments, making hot chocolate, and Erik's shoulders relaxed slightly at the steady movements. He watched her graceful movements with one eye, the rest of his attention returning to his thoughts. Raven didn't allow him to slip into them completely, however, and with a sharp little sound, she put her mug of hot chocolate down. "So." 

Erik turned his gaze to her, blinking a little in confusion. "What?" 

"We need to talk," she informed him flatly. Erik raised an eyebrow, and she frowned. "Don't give me that face." 

"What do we need to talk about?" Erik questioned dryly, humoring her. It was better that they discuss whatever she needed to get off her chest. Perhaps then she'd leave him alone. It had been a long day, and the weariness was starting to demand that he take himself off to sleep. 

"You." 

That, at least, caught Erik's attention. "What _about_ me?" he demanded roughly, because he wasn't sure whether he wanted to know what was on Raven's mind. 

"You! This!" she exclaimed, gesturing at Erik up and down. 

Erik frowned down at his clothing. "My shirt?" 

"What? No, of course not. What's wrong with your shirt?" 

"There's nothing wrong with my shirt!" 

"Well, good? That's not the point." 

"Then what _is_ your point?" 

Raven quieted at that, biting at her lip absently. After the long day, Erik didn't particularly want to be patient, but he managed to dreg some up and closed his eyes. After a moment of concentration, purposefully slowing his heart and his breathing, he inquired in a much gentler tone, "Then what is your point, Raven?" 

"My brother," she began slowly, "is the sort of person that will meet a stranger on a bus, and will give them this smile, and will get their entire life story from them. It's a little ridiculous, really. He likes talking to people. He doesn't always understand them, and is really quite a terrible conversationalist at times, but he thinks everyone has something interesting to say." 

Erik didn't quite know what Raven was talking about, but he gave her an encouraging nod. It cost him little enough, and hopefully she'd get to her point before his headache caused his brain to begin leaking out of his ears. When Raven remained still and quiet, he prodded, "Your brother certainly likes to talk." He managed to make the words only a little wry. It didn't mean that Raven was wrong; Charles indeed liked people, genuinely liked them in a way that completely astonished Erik. He couldn't remember how often during their cross-country trip to try and find mutants willing to fight for their cause that he'd found Charles amiably chatting with some woman or man or child; if Erik wasn't around, Charles was all too eager to share their story after the fact. 

"You don't really like that, though. The talking to strangers part, listening to what they want it is to tell you, I mean." She made it more of a statement than a question. Erik shook his head in agreement of her assessment and Raven's mouth quirked to the side. "No, I know. Charles may enjoy it, but I know you don't." Erik shrugged a little, at a loss for what to say. Raven's half-smile turned into a full one as she turned her eyes down to her hot chocolate. She drank yet more, and Erik sat back in his chair, letting go of his frustration over the slowness of Raven's conversation. 

"We like you," Raven said, quite suddenly. "We're pretty sure you're crazy. Absolutely crazy." She glanced at him sidelong, mouth quirking briefly in a smile. "Well, mostly crazy, at any rate." Erik found a laugh burbling up in his chest despite himself. "Thank you very much for that rousing endorsement," he retorted, but it didn't disguise the chuckles that escaped him. "I really don't know what I would do without you and your unequivocal confidence in me and my abilities." 

Raven looked at him, brows rising, and she grinned at him, laughing along with him. There was something very fond in her voice as she murmured, "We don't expect you to be Charles, you know." At the shocked and sudden stillness of the man beside her, she continued in a more serious tone, "Actually, we'd sort of prefer it if you weren't. Charles is, well, something else entirely. And there are times when I can barely deal with him. But you don't..." for the first time, Raven faltered, lashes veiling her golden eyes as she looked away. "You're different. And you're easily irritated and have a bit of a sadistic streak and impatient and rude and just really fucking _annoying_ sometimes." 

Erik opened his mouth, to say what he didn't know, but Raven cut him off with a sharp look. "You also want us to be _safe_. You want us to be strong and wary. We might not always agree with you or what you want to do but we know that you don't want anything to happen to us. And you worry about Charles, like, all the time, seriously, _all the time_ , it's like you think he can't take care of himself." 

For that, at least, Erik could muster a response even if the rest of what Raven had been saying had left his eloquence as ash. "He can't." 

Raven laughed, short and sharp and bright, "Well, God, yes, he is really terrible at taking care of himself, I guess. But you let him think that he knows how to take care of himself. And you even respect Chandler and Alice and Amelia and Azazel and treat them like they're people, not objects, even knowing that they were working with Shaw. We trust you, even when we sort of want to drop you down the side of a mountain. You're a good guy, Erik." She swallowed, abruptly nervous, and patted him awkwardly on the hand. Erik tensed, wanting to jerk his hand away from Raven's, worried about her wanting more than he could afford to give, but Raven's eyes on him were more like liquid honey than hard amber. Erik didn't think he deserved such a look of faith and kindness. Raven was beautiful and brilliant and quick and clever and able to do so much—and chose to look at Erik like he knew what he was doing, like he really actually knew how to fix this fucking situation. 

It was humbling and quite possibly the most terrifying thing he'd ever seen. 

_There's so much more to you then you know. Not just pain and anger. There's good too, I felt it. And when you can access all of it, you'll possess a power no one can match. Not even me._

The words, which he'd dismissed instinctively in front of Charles, came ringing through his mind like the pealing of bells. Charles was naïve, and spectacular, and wise, and foolish, and absolutely _impossible_ and even though he was the one that could read minds, Erik couldn't believe what Charles had claimed to find in the bloody wreck of Erik's thoughts. 

"A good guy," Erik repeated through numb lips. _There's good too, I felt it_. "I'm not...Raven, really. I'm not a good person," he rasped, "I'm not." 

Raven stood, and now her eyes were too clever and knowing. _It isn't fair_ , Erik thought wildly, _Charles is in a coma. I'm not supposed to have to deal with this!_ It was stupid, and ridiculous, but Erik couldn't help his conviction that he shouldn't have people believing that he was good. Not after the things he'd seen, the things he'd done; he didn't feel guilty for any of it, either. Even now, with Raven looking at him with calm complaisance, he didn't feel guilty. He'd done what was necessary to stop them from hurting anyone else ever again. He'd do it in a heartbeat all over again if he thought he needed to. 

Raven watched him, eyes remaining bright even in the dim lighting of the kitchen. Erik barely managed to stave off the urge to glance away, to stand and make his excuses and escape before this conversation ended even more poorly than it was already going to. "Yeah," she quipped lightly. "You are." She rose to her feet gracefully, bending at the last second to press a kiss to Erik's cheek, grinning a little when she saw his expression. 

She exited the kitchen, calling over the shoulder, "Just think about us!" 

"Us?" Erik repeated when she was gone, fingers resting lightly over the place where she'd kissed him. "What—oh." 

Erik marveled over the thought for a second, the weight and depth of it overtaking him. His breath caught in his throat. This—it seemed unfair, that he should be having this realization at a quiet kitchen table after a long and frustrating day. It seemed to cheapen it, almost, except that it couldn't really be cheapened at all. 

_Us_. Raven, first. Then Alex, Sean, Hank (and Darwin and Angel, a part of him whispered). Azazel. Finally Chandler, Wright and Cooper. The _us_ that Erik had promised to protect in lieu of his own family—his new family, his fellow mutants. The people for whom he would put his life on the line, for whom he would sacrifice anything. It was a thought he'd had before, had many times before, but it sank into his bones in a way it hadn't before with the knowledge that came in its wake. 

They cared for him in return. 

Now that he was thinking about it, Raven's faith scorching in the back of his mind, it forced him to face the facts. Perhaps his judgment of the others had been harsher than they deserved. Memories rose, choking, like how Alex would scowl and mutter that Erik was an asshole when Erik awkwardly attempted to reach out and comfort him. It had hurt, Alex's impatience and insecurity, and it had been easier to push it away and childish and ridiculous than to let it weigh on Erik's own heart. 

That wasn't fair, though—neither to Alex nor Erik himself. If Raven was right, perhaps wasn't that Alex didn't want Erik talking to him, trying to help. Perhaps Alex simply wanted to be comforted as Charles had once comforted him. Erik would never be Charles, _could_ never be Charles so perhaps Erik should simply _be_ there without trying so damn hard to figure out what it was that Alex was looking to hear; maybe Erik could at least give Alex silent support until Erik figured out what was needed. 

Another memory rose then—Azazel's narrow-eyed look of impatience whenever Erik failed to be an even, fair judge. Erik had loathed the constant reminder of his failures, but a realization surfaced in Erik's mind now: the only way for Azazel to be disappointed when he failed to be anything less than a clever leader would be if the teleported had expected Erik would perform the task as needed in the first place. He'd won Azazel's acceptance by treating him as an equal rather than making it an impossible task to gain Erik's trust. 

This was true for the others too. With Raven's words came a rare clarity as the memories swamped him—Hank's irritation when Erik argued with him over security; Hank rarely contested the need for security, only the best fashion in which to employ it. He wasn't fighting against Erik, merely trying to redirect the metallokinetic's focus. Sean's plaintive awkwardness whenever Erik left him at loose ends; Sean who was not clever in the way of Hank or Chandler or useful in the way of Azazel or Raven. Perhaps Sean wasn't avoiding burdens as Erik had assumed so much as wary of failing and letting the people who relied on him down. Cooper's strained patience when Erik wanted answers they both knew she couldn't provide was less irritation and more sadness that she couldn't aid more. 

That wasn't even everything. So many other little moments that struck him, left him wide-eyed in the dim light of the kitchen trying to catch his breath. 

And of course, there was Raven herself who had stepped up as his right hand who seemed to have understood this all with an ease and wit all her own. She was as dedicated as Erik himself was to keeping their newly found family safe and whole, but it wasn't until now that Erik realized that she was the bridging force. She wasn't a child like the others, or so it seemed. She was just the one who seemed to get _people_ , not just minds as Charles or actions as Erik did. 

Erik wasn't ever going to say the right thing, didn't have the ability to so easily understand what others were thinking. He wasn't the most patient of people, or the most kind, and no matter what Raven declared, Erik most certainly wasn't _good_ , but as he'd been so adroitly reminded, he wasn't Charles, shouldn't try to be him. He was a different sort of leader than Charles, a man of dramatic action and bold charisma rather than gentle touches and dangerous perseverance. 

So maybe he should stop trying to play Charles' game, and start playing his own.


	11. Of Frying Pans and Fires

_He decided to call it_ Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters. 

_Hank, Alex and Sean had insisted that he name the school after himself, claiming that he was the real professor there, not them. They'd done it jokingly, with smiles on their faces, but they really had meant it with a sincerity that took him by surprise. They thought he was the teacher, the instructor, the one that knew how to make people want to learn and get better. It was a bit of an overestimation in his opinion, but he didn't want to break the first real confidence that they could do this, turn this dusty old mansion into a place that was equal parts school and home, a refuge for those being persecuted._

_After long weeks of work, they'd finally managed to get something approaching a real school together in the main wing of the house: three fully furbished classrooms on the ground floor, along with Charles' room, Charles' nurse's room, the main kitchen, the laundry room, two bathrooms and a recreation area. On the second floor there was a long series of rooms that were dedicated to the students. Each had a bookcase, a desk with a chair, a closet, a chest of drawers, and a bed. If the children didn't have things of their own, funds had been set aside for them to at least purchase the basics. Hank, Alex and Sean were in an adjacent corridor, close enough that if trouble stirred they'd be able to get to the students, but far enough that the children had at least some notion of privacy. Also on that hallway was the small, half-blind woman who had been contracted as cook for the school; she'd been chosen mostly on the grounds that food was her life and her only response to Hank was to squint up at him and wonder aloud what strange things children were wearing these days._

_They'd even figured out who would teach what courses: Hank was obviously responsible for mathematics, physics and chemistry. Sean, surprisingly, would cover literature with Alex taking care of history. That left biology, politics and psychology for Charles himself. It was as complete an education as the four of them would be able to manage with their skills. Charles hoped, as time passed and they were able to add more mutants, young and old, to the school, they would be able to bring other programs in as well—music, art, economics, the growing field of computers, languages, astronomy, theology. There were so many things he wished to be able to teach his students that what they could offer seemed like only a paltry substitution._

_Still, Charles planned to focus first and foremost on those that most needed his help—the ones that had been abandoned, as Raven had, the ones whose powers threatened to go entirely out of their owner's control, like Alex's. Now that Cerebro was finished and thoroughly vetted for problems, Charles would be able to once more lock into that exhilarating outreach of power and touch his fellow mutants and ensure that they were not harmed._

_It was more than that, though. It was the ability to touch_ all _of those minds, not just those of other mutants. The wishes, the hopes, the fears, the frailties of the entire human race, within his grasp for just a moment. It was intoxicating and intimidating. Charles didn't even know how to deal with it, with the influx of power that swamped his senses. It would be so easy to become something larger than life with the power of Cerebro guiding him; letting go of that level of power was difficult._

_However, Charles, of all people, knew that one could not live as a mind alone. It would have been easier, certainly, to drift from mind to mind, to forget about such physical needs as food and breath and weariness—and even about the far less physical needs, like desire and passion and hope. Charles wouldn't be Charles anymore if he did that, however, if he gave up all of his wishes for the future._

_Charles wanted hope, thrived on it. Hope that Erik and Raven would see that their way could only lead to destruction. Hope that the war they all so feared would not come to pass. Hope that there was a way ahead of them that involved humans and mutants together, as a single people. Charles lived in a constant state of hope, foolish though he sometimes thought it may be. It was a thought that most often sounded like Erik: fond and exasperated in turns._

_Charles shook the thoughts out of his head as he and Hank made their way down into the depths of the Xavier mansion. This was not the time to be distracted. They worked silently and quickly to get Charles situated into the machine, until Hank was standing at Cerebro's controls, waiting for Charles' command._

_“Very well, Hank. Let's begin.“_

~*~ 

"Hey, Moira." Sean knocked on the stone that bordered the entrance to her room, but it was more or less for effect. Lensherr had quietly and firmly put a stop to any real privacy she was going to get. Still, Hank, Sean, and Alex, her only real visitors (Lensherr was decidedly in the 'captor' area, not a visitor) at least had the courtesy to knock, and Moira quickly learned the art of changing in the one area of the room that was out of sight. 

At Sean's greeting, Moira looked up from the thin volume of Lovecraft's short stories in her hands, dredging up a smile from somewhere. It felt uncertain and awkward on her face. These days, it was a mostly unused expression, but Sean, carrying a bowl of something that was steaming slightly, didn't seem to notice. Dinner, then. Or at least leftovers. It was kind of him, really, because it meant she didn't have to wait for everyone else to filter out of the kitchen and get settled for the evening before she went to get a bite to eat herself. It was a taxing business, operating during the hours when everyone else was usually asleep or otherwise busy, but she'd gotten used to it. While the boys seemed to have come to the conclusion that until Charles was awake once more they were going to try to keep from passing judgment on her for firing the bullet that had injured him, there were others more than willing to hold her accountable for the events on the beach. 

She gratefully held out her hands for the bowl and the spoon. It was some sort of thick stew; it seemed Sean was trying to branch out a little. "Thank you," she murmured, the smile widening. Moira didn't feel all that pleased, however, besides the general happiness of getting a hot meal. She couldn't manage to get excited about much these days. 

"Of course." Sean straightened, looking proud. He grabbed the chair that sat at the foot of her narrow bed, and dropped into it. It was a comfortable gesture, one he'd done many times before. When others weren't around to poke fun at him and his stoner personality (which was only partially cultivated; the smell of marijuana was unmistakable to someone who'd spent her formative years in New York City), Sean had a surprising taste for literature and films. If Moira spoke coaxingly enough, he'd even discuss things with her, slowly at first but with more passion and excitement the longer that Moira was willing to listen to him. It made her wonder, sometimes, if she was the only one who spoke with Sean—or with Hank, or Alex when they stopped by as well—about something beyond the day-to-day necessities of what they were doing. Sean certainly seemed to act like it and thrived beneath the attention. 

It was nice, actually. Sean reminded her of her own youngest brother, Liam, who shared Sean's propensity to get in massive amounts of trouble over his own stupid and/or ridiculous mistakes. It seemed sometimes like she'd spent Liam's formative years bailing him out of one situation after another. It was also nice, Moira had to admit, to talk to someone else used to enormous families filled with too much chatter and not enough space and aggravating relations. 

It reminded Moira of one of the reasons why she'd stuck around regardless of Lensherr's fucking collar. 

However, as Moira dug into the stew, which had an odd aftertaste but was fine otherwise, Sean didn't launch into some book that she just had to read, or make fun of her taste for Lovecraft and Shelley and Poe as he normally did. She'd defended herself against his accusations before, since he seemed to think that she only enjoyed tales of doom and destruction, and she was willing to do it again. Even though she'd left the collection of Lovecraftian horrors in plain view, however, Sean just gazed at her with worry in his eyes. 

It took her a minute to place the look. It was the way that her brothers used to look at her when she got into an argument with their parents; concern, mixed in with a healthy amount of trepidation that she might burst into tears at any given second, especially when everyone knew she was right but for the sake of keeping what remained of the peace, she'd dropped the subject. She remembered being as frustrated by the look then as she was now, because it usually heralded them trying to comfort her in their uncertain and ill-informed way when all she wanted to do was scream things into her pillow without interruption until she burned the frustration out of herself. 

She finished her mouthful, and started, "Sean..." with evident annoyance. The last thing she wanted was to have this discussion yet again. In recent weeks, the possibility of her escaping was something they talked about less and less often even when Moira could see they dearly wished to, since Moira herself refused to touch the subject. They'd pointed out all of the possible ways that Moira could escape, if she so chose, and all of them had volunteered multiple times to aid with her escape. It was wrong, they'd told her time and again, wrong what Erik was doing to her. 

Each time she heard those words, she found herself barely biting back the words, "Of course it was wrong, I'm not a fucking slave," at the very last second. The last thing she wanted was to needlessly lash out at them. 

Instead, she'd chosen to remain steadfast on the point that she had her reasons for remaining in Ithaca and no, they weren't going to be privy to her thoughts. After all, there was no sense incriminating them either with Lensherr or—if things went well and truly FUBAR—the CIA. Not that she had any plans to get the CIA involved, but one never knew. Neither Lensherr nor the CIA would be privy to the fact that it was Moira who had been telling Hank what the CIA looked for first in a field situation and how to defend against it, or that she'd worked on training Alex in spotting federal agents, or that she'd taught Sean memory tricks so that during his aerial surveys he'd be able to keep the information well organized in his mind for when he returned. If Lensherr found out, he would assume she was trying to set them up for some long-term betrayal, regardless of the fact that she'd had no means of contacting anyone for months. If the CIA found out, they would look at what she'd done as a breach of the defense of the very nation she was meant to protect. It was best that Moira simply continue to do her best to keep her friends safe. 

"I know, I know!" Sean protested, holding his hands out in front of him as though they were going to protect him from Moira's ire. "I didn't say anything!" 

"Because there's nothing left to say," Moira retorted drolly. She kept her voice light only through virtue of practice. "We've beaten this discussion to death. All of us." Sean, after all, wasn't the only one to bring up the issue of the collar around her neck, though she'd endeavored not to bring attention to it—wearing her hair down, sporting shirts with high collars, anything that might hide the smooth metal. 

Sean made a face. "I just..." he sighed, tipping his head back at the ceiling and blowing out a sharp note through his teeth. The sound reverberated around the carved rock of her room, and Moira winced. Despite Charles' efforts in that direction, Sean was no more fully controlled that anyone else in their ragtag bunch of misfits were. 

Sean caught sight of her wince, and made a face. Standing, waving vaguely apologetically, Sean backed out. "You're right, it's like, your business or whatever. Just, we want you do be okay, you know?" He really was painfully earnest beneath the awkward and gangly exterior. Moira's heart softened despite her best efforts. 

"I know you do, Sean. I know," she comforted. 

Sean nodded, but didn't sit down again, backing away towards the door. "So, I should let you eat. While it's still hot and everything, you know." He made his escape while Moira was still formulating a reply. It stung her, despite her best efforts. 

She stared down at the half-finished bowl of soup and let out a slow breath. She wasn't sure what to tell Sean, wasn't sure what to tell any of them. They meant well, they really did, bringing her food and making sure that she wasn't kept completely in the dark by Lensherr. They clearly didn't always know how to act around he,r because she was a woman who had been in the CIA and who was perfectly capable of knocking them senseless if they gave her the opportunity to do so, but they did their best. They came and talked with her, laughed with her, voluntarily spent time with her even if they were doing nothing more than peacefully sitting beside her doing their own work as she read something. 

Sometimes, though, she wondered why they didn't avoid her like Raven did. 

Raven made sense. Charles was her brother, the only one who'd known her secret for so long. Even Moira had suffered a moment of screaming, "What the _fuck_ ," within the confines of her own mind when she'd first seen Raven's true form. Moira thought she could be forgiven, because even in the long and varied CIA training program that they'd put her through, blue scaled women who could change their appearance on whim were _impossible_. Or at least, it should have been impossible—except Moira knew better, because she'd caught the glimpse of Azazel, the scarlet teleporter, while sneaking around the Hellfire Club. 

Still, _no one_ could possibly be prepared for that. She'd adjusted, though, had managed to deal with the fact that Raven could take on the appearance of anyone she choose, even if it had meant that Moira was forced to temporarily gag the part of her brain that constantly catalogued the people around her for threat level to the American government. From the obvious adoration and love with which Raven generally looked at Charles, however, it was clear that if Charles had ever suffered from such reservations they had been incredibly fleeting; it was no wonder that Raven avoided the woman who'd shot her brother, accidentally or not. 

The fact that Moira had fired the bullet that had left Charles with a broken back, in a _coma_ couldn't possibly have endeared Moira to Raven in the least. Lensherr was different; he was one of Raven's own, mutant and outcast and someone who'd suffered more than anyone should be able to stand, while Moira was everything Raven had come to distrust—human, a government agent, dangerous to the future safely of the mutant people. 

It wasn't as if there was anything that Moira could really say in her own defense, either, not as such. Moira had been training to use the weapons at hand; if there was a knife, she used a knife. If there was a bat, she used a bat. If she had information, she used it to her advantage. If there was a man, she used her breasts. 

If there was a gun, she fired it. 

If there was one thing she took pride in, it was her talent for weaponry. Simply to get through basic training, she'd had to prove herself strong, faster, smarter, sharper, wiser, tougher, _meaner_ —in any and all ways superior to the men who were her competition. She'd spent hours learning to fire a gun until every shot was a bull's-eye. Moira had been forced to, after all, because she'd seen her instructors quibble over her bullets where they'd given her classmates a grudging but uncontested pass. Such was the life of a woman in the CIA. 

Moira set aside the bowl, suddenly not hungry any more, and stared at her hands. They were gently callused, though once at least they hadn't been hard thanks to the cream she'd put on each night. Her skin had a tendency to crack in cold weather otherwise, as they were threatening to do now. Closing her eyes, feeling stupid for such mawkish behavior, she inhaled deeply. 

The hands that were so steady when she was firing a gun were trembling slightly now. She clenched them into fists, trying to remember if there had been another way, if things could have possibly gone differently on the beach. Images in stark relief slammed into her each time she shut her eyes: Erik, hand outstretched. Shaw's allies, watching with fearful eyes. Charles, beyond furious. 

Moira didn't remember pulling her gun, though sometime between the second and third shot she'd realized how stupid it was to fire anything metal at a man who controlled it completely. She didn't stop, however, because as Charles had proved with their tussle in the sand, Erik couldn't both keep control of those damn missiles and deal with multiple other things. A gunshot wound would distract him nicely, if she could get through his defenses. 

It was one of the first things that the CIA taught when dealing with firearms, however: don't shoot the civilians. It had been a tacitly understood rule that injuring or killing a civilian while trying to protect them was pretty much the worst possible plan. Not only did it throw the situation in further disarray and cost energy and resources to make sure the person was treated as swiftly as possible, but it made the agency look utterly incompetent. If there was one thing McCone and Stryker had hated, it was others making them look incompetent, regardless of the circumstances. It also reflected badly on her, which Moira thought was more important. She'd joined the CIA to help people, to help the people in this country that she cared about and to make the world a safer place for those who relied upon her. No matter how well intentioned, shooting at civilians went against all of her instincts. 

She'd forgotten it, somehow. She'd taken that gun, and thinking only of the fact that people were out there on those damn warships, thinking only of how Erik thought he could dictate the fate of the world like he understood the difference between vengeance and justice, thinking only of how fucking _angry_ she was that the people of the agency, of _her_ agency could just abandon her and the people who had rescued their pathetic asses—she'd taken up her gun—and— 

—And that was the other thing, really. Moira had worked every day, every damn day to prove that she was every bit as capable as her fellow agents. She'd gone out to see Charles on her own dime (though if he'd been useful, she knew she'd probably get reimbursed though with bureaucracy if she saw the money inside a year she'd be shocked) after getting her hands on a copy of his thesis. She'd arranged the meetings, did all of the legwork, made sure the paperwork was signed, let Levine present himself as fait accompli to all of this. Then, before this mission, there had been cases and cases where she'd bludgeoned her way in through sheer force of personality and skill or spent long hours pouring over numbers that the others couldn't be bothered to check. She did the work of a secretary and an agent, and what a bitter pill _that_ was to swallow, especially when she was in a lurch and couldn't get access to everything she needed to. They were complicating her job, throwing up every roadblock they could, and for what? To prove that she wasn't worthy of carrying her badge and her gun? To prove that they could take it from her, that they _would_ take it from her if given half the chance? 

This was her duty, she'd sworn oaths, she'd dedicated her life to that job, the _people_ that job was meant to protect. 

_That was_ , Moira thought, aching, _was the part that makes it so aggravating, so painful a betrayal. Because whatever else, I thought I was still an agent. A disliked, vexing, inconvenient agent who was on the fringes of the boy's club, but still an agent._ Her mouth quivered for a moment, a flash of hot tears prickling. She squeezed her eyes shut and took steadying breaths. She relied too heavily on her cool and practical armor to be anything but unnerved by the lump in her throat or the way her skin felt tight. 

When she was finally under control once more, she fisted one hand in her lap, the other coming to press against the fine lettering where her dog tags could still be read. She ran her fingers over the engravings again and again, until they lost meaning. 

They'd left her on the beach to die. 

A sacrifice. 

Moira had always known it was possible she'd die in the line of duty. Death had never seemed to hover so close as that day in the Hellfire Club, of course, but she'd gotten into dangerous scrapes before. She'd been held at gunpoint, left with broken bones and bruises. It had never been anything particularly dangerous, but enough to make her constantly aware that there was a very real chance that she could die for her work. She'd have done it willingly, too. She probably wouldn't face her death with ease and confidence like the old comic superheroes, but she would regard it as a necessary sacrifice. 

That day on the beach though, knowing right through her skin and bones and into her heart of hearts that no one could answer her frantic cries without admitting that there was an agent on the beach with the monsters, knowing that they were willing to kill her for no other reason than they were afraid of what the mutants might do even after they'd saved the millions of lives that would have been lost in a nuclear world war three... 

Moira bowed her head, shoulders shaking as she tried to keep her sobs down. Tears filled her eyes and overflowed while dark grief sat heavy in her chest. She couldn't help it when ragged little breaths escaped, the thoughts she'd been circling for weeks finally being illustrated in terrible finality and slicing her open. Her nose grew stuffy and then ran, her skin going blotchy. Others might have the presence of mind to keep some level of composure when they cried, but Moira wasn't one of them. It was one of the reasons she hated breaking down so much. It didn't stop her from doing it, however, her tears unstoppable. She kept one hand even now on those dog tags which represented her desire to protect her country and her people as much as her shattered faith. 

As all things must come to an end, however, the tears stopped trickling down her face and she was left sniffling and rubbing at her temples. A pounding headache was building in her temples. Maybe she would be able to sleep it off, or maybe she should try and coax it out of her system with a cup of tea. She didn't yet want to move, though, and she rubbed at her face wearily. 

A glass of water was thrust in her face. 

It was Alex who held it, glaring at the far wall of her room as though it was the sole perpetrator who had so thoroughly upset Moira. There was snowmelt in the glass, which they'd taken to using instead of ice because there was already an excess of it surrounding them. Hank had even talked about storing things outside now that the temperatures were consistently in the twenties or lower. 

Though she didn't want him to see her like this, cheeks puffy and eyes rimmed with red, she silently took hold of the water and pressed the coolness against her throbbing temples for a few seconds. Though the ache didn't subside, it was staved off for the time being, and Moira decided that was good enough for now. She sipped at the water carefully, keeping her head ducked down and breathing carefully, trying to keep herself calm. She was thirty years old. She didn't need to be crying in front of someone a decade younger than her. 

"Thanks," she finally said when the glass had been drained. She sat it on the floor, and Alex grabbed the same chair that Sean had been sitting in either. He effortlessly tugged at it until the back was facing her, and he leaned his arms on the back, putting his head on his arms as he shifted until he was comfortable. 

Alex didn't look at her, lifting his shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. Moira wiped one last time at her eyes as discretely as she could manage, and then gave Alex a hard look. "Did you need something?" Moira asked, curious despite herself. Alex had many good qualities, but he wasn't precisely known for his even temperament; frankly, she was shocked that he'd even thought to bring her a glass of water. That was something more along the lines of what Hank or Sean would normally do. 

Alex absently ran his fingers along the back of the chair, expression going from wary to thoughtful, a rare enough occurrence that Moira felt justified in raising her eyebrow in question. Alex scowled at her for a moment, but it didn't have any real heat behind it. "Sean told me what happened." 

Moira sighed. God save her from well-meaning idiots. "You mean, how he brought up me leaving again?" she asked with nothing more than old patience filling her voice. "He does realize that it's not even my biggest concern these days, right?" No, she had much bigger concerns—like making sure that the CIA didn't know just how much information she'd told Erik. They didn't look kindly on treason, especially with the way things probably currently stood between the US and the Soviet Union. She'd be all but drawn and quartered for her crimes and probably labeled as a commie on top of it; Moira wouldn't be surprised if the U.S. government had already decided that though the USSR had seemed as though they had no idea who the mutants on the beach were, the Russian government was probably really in cahoots with the mutant threat, out to destroy America at the earliest opportunity. 

"Then what were you crying over?" Alex said. He managed to keep his voice even and almost disinterred, but the gravely undertone and the way he flushed scarlet was telling enough. It was almost as embarrassing for him to ask the question as it was for her to answer it. 

Flushing in response, Moira stood and busied herself. She straightened her bed, moving the glass to a small table she'd appropriated before she accidentally knocked it over and broke it. "Oh, you know," she said, almost too casually. "It's been a long few months, you know. Sometimes it just gets to be a bit much. But I'm alright, mostly. Really, Alex. Thank you for asking, but it's not a big deal. Sometimes you just get, uh, overwhelmed." She winced a little at the understatement, but Alex didn't even seem to notice. Just as well. 

Alex just remained silent, until finally Moira had run out of ridiculous tasks to invent for herself. She was about to not-so-subtly hint that Alex should take the cup back to the kitchen, when Alex blurted out, "It was like that, sometimes. In prison." 

Moira stilled, and then gave that the consideration it deserved. She knew the basic details, of course. She wouldn't have let anyone join the team that she didn't have a full background check for. She'd looked through the files of Alex Summers with a sort of detached pity. A school ground argument that turned into something far more than school ground when several boys decided to jump Alex and a friend one night after a party. There had been an explosion somehow. One of the boys had died instantly, a second while in critical care. The two others, along with Alex's friend, bore the burn scars from that night even now. With the property damage, the deaths—someone was always going to go down for it, and with Alex having escaped unscathed from the center of the inferno, it seemed like he was the only real culprit to be had. It was just a shame that it had happened mere weeks before his eighteenth birthday; if he'd been just a little younger, he'd probably have been tried as a juvie and would have been out in six months when he was of age. Instead, he'd been barely a month away from eighteen and looking at a four year sentence for manslaughter. 

In retrospect it was so obvious; a drunken brawl gone wrong that triggered Alex's mutation to come out in full force. Plasma rings, in that narrow alley—none of the kids, Alex included, ever had a chance. Yet what was the court supposed to do? Let Alex walk when it looked like he'd just burned five kids, two of them to death, however involuntarily, never mind the fact no one was completely sure how he'd done it? Moira shook her head. She always hated when the system let down the people it was supposed to be caring for, when it fucked up. It was even worse now, knowing that Alex had probably be terrified, unable to control his powers, unsure what had even happened. 

It also made Moira think that Alex was far stronger than everyone gave him credit for. After everything he'd went through, he'd been willing to take Charles' offer to stand against Shaw and his mindless destruction. He'd taken it even knowing that he'd make mistakes along the way, that he might lose control and hurt someone else, that he had to use his powers in the first place instead of pretending the horror of it didn't exist or that it had been a fluke. Then to stay around after what happened to Darwin and Angel—Christ, they were just kids, they all were, even if they were technically legal. No kids should have to do what they'd been doing. 

"Oh?" she finally said, hoping she didn't put too much emphasis on it. 

Alex stared at his hands. "Yeah. They, uh, well, they let me stick around in juvie for that month, at least. Got the stuff set up to finish my GED even when I was in prison. It wasn't much, just finishing up a few classes for my," he swallowed, and his voice came out cracked, "my senior year, but it kept me occupied for the most part. It wasn't until after I was done with everything that it got bad. I was the new kid, so people kept trying to rough me up, show me how low on the food chain I was." He laughed hollowly. "It was easy to ignore them at first, since I could usually escape to get my work done. But later, when I didn't always have something to do, I would get—angry. I could feel it, building, like some sort of hot pressure in my chest, especially outside in the sun. I hated it. Hated how out of control I felt, and how afraid it would happen again." He sucked in a breath. Moira just stood stock still, lest she disturb the spell. 

"It got so it felt like it was all the time, eventually. I thought I was going to explode, or die, because I didn't think I could control it anymore. That's when I made them put me in solitary, a couple weeks before I was nineteen, I think. I didn't want to hurt anyone," he made a sharp, pained sound, "not again. But it was hard, you know? It was the best choice, but it was quiet all the time." His grin looked awful and Moira tried not to stare at it. "My head..." he paused for half a minute before he found a way to continue. "My head isn't the friendliest place, you know?" 

Moira could connect the dots, so she knew. The details of his file made it particularly easy for her—foster child, friends never visited after his incarceration, the isolation, the bereavement of everything he'd lost—but she wouldn't have had a problem figuring out where his thoughts might have been even without knowing. It was all in the dark tone of his voice and the way he'd stumbled over his words. Alex was never particularly verbose, preferring to allow his short temper and arrogance to shove people away. 

She slowly sank back down to her bed. Alex still hadn't looked up, but his expression was distant. Back in the prison, she'd bet. She caught one of his hands, clasping it between her own. They were cold and rough beneath her own, and Alex looked at her properly for the first time since he'd stepped inside her small room. When she had his attention, she made sure to meet his eyes and earnestly tell him, "Thank you. For sharing, for being here, just," she sighed a little, unable to phrase what she wanted to say. She was left repeating, "Thank you. Thank you," several more times. 

Alex tugged his hand away immediately, some color coming back into his cheeks but he didn't mutter anything scathing in her general direction, so Moira figured that her thanks had been more or less accepted. 

Then Alex looked at her, too knowing for a kid who wasn't quite twenty yet. "Charles and Erik rescued me from prison," he whispered, barely loud enough to hear. His eyes searched hers. "I doubt you'll be so lucky. There isn't a rescue coming, but you're not going to just stick around and hope for Erik to let you out of that." He gestured at her collar, and Moira's fingers automatically went to the smooth metal once again. "He's not going to just let you go, but you're not going to just agree to stay. So when you do finally have to make a choice, what are you going to do?" 

Moira closed her eyes, a hundred thousand desires crowding to her tongue. 

The only one that escaped was, "I don't know."


	12. The Merits of Pancakes

_There wasn't anything about the thefts that Charles could definitively say was the work of the newly established Brotherhood of Mutants. Magneto was many things, but subtle wasn't one of them. Usually, he wanted to make some sort of grandiose statement about how much better mutants were than the rest of the populace, seeding dissent and discord wherever he went. He was quick to claim any sort of attack as one of his own, and Charles was left frantically scrambling, trying to figure out ways to prevent Magneto's next work._

_With Azazel on their side, however, allowing them to work as a terrorist cell who hit quickly and then moved right into a flawless escape, it wasn't as though the authorities had any real chance of finding them. Already there was unrest stirring in the nation; the government, especially considering the rumor of the CIA's involvement with mutants, wasn't precisely eager to acknowledge exactly who was responsible. There was always the chance that if the full events of the Cuban Missile Crisis were disclosed, if what the government had threatened to do to the very people who had saved the lives of untold millions in the long run, public opinion might be swayed. They were having enough trouble containing some of the responses to the continuing civil rights movement._

_Already, however, Magneto's actions had cost people their lives. Charles refused to sit by the way side and bury his head in the sand and allow Magneto to do as he pleased. Moira had said that they were the X-Men now, before Charles had wiped her mind; a quaint moniker, Charles had thought at the time, but the name was holding more weight now. Tracing absent patterns over the arms of his wheelchair, Charles turned the idea over slowly in his mind. The more he considered it, the less he liked the idea. They were a school, meant to teach and nurture mutant powers, meant to give those with mutations some place to feel normal._

_That made him think of Raven and her blue skin, and his stomach twisted up a little and this time his grip on his wheelchair was much tighter, his newly developed upper body muscles tensing. Then he deliberately pushed the thought away; guilt, one of his most constant companions, could not be indulged in at the moment._

_Charles couldn't let his feeling for any of them get in the way of making sure that he stopped them._

_So as much as Charles hated the idea, of having to send his fellow teachers and friends out to stand against the man who had once helped guide them, he knew that he had to if he wanted to stop Magneto. Charles, trapped in his chair, wasn't mobile the way he would have to be if he was going to join them. As things stood now, he would be a liability to them, unable to move the way they would need to, though his powers could be useful. Just as well; if they were to do this, they would have to dedicate their time as much towards making sure the new students were well as figuring out how to defend the larger world from the Brotherhood. Charles would have to run both._

_Maybe that was what they needed—a Brotherhood of their own, an active team that could move relatively easily to wherever they were needed. Hank had just finished the Blackbird II, after all, a plane even sleeker and faster than the one they'd used to head down to Cuba. Hank had, when he thought Charles wasn't paying attention, outfitted it with a full complement of small and lightweight weaponry—the size didn't mean they were any less deadly, however. Charles had let him do it even as he hated knowing that it was better to have the weapons and never fire them rather than desperately need them and not have them._

_So, then. They would do it; they would have to do it. If they stood back, if they did nothing and turned a blind eye to the Brotherhood's actions, he might as well condone their actions and join them. Charles would work with Hank, Sean and Alex to figure out what Magneto could do with the materials that he'd been stealing. Then, as a team, though would go out and figure out how to stop them. They would attract government attention, would be forced to incur their wrath when they realized that another set of mutants out of their control even if they were standing against the Brotherhood terrorists._

_Charles wanted to spit curses at Magneto, wanted to lash out at him. Fury built up in him, a heavy iron weight on his lungs. Of all the things that Magneto could have done—surely he knew, he must know, that Charles would never simply sit back while people were getting killed. The minute Magneto had taken an innocent life for the mutant cause, he had to have known that Charles would act against him. He would force Charles to send children_ —children!— _against him, force him to rely on his own students to defend the larger world while Charles himself could only give them aid. If he went out into the field with them, he would be a liability in his metal chair while Magneto's mind was protected from him._

_Once, he'd have thought that Erik would never raise a hand against him. Erik might not always like him, might think him foolish and arrogant and naïve, but Erik had generally respected him and his mutation and the work Charles was trying to do. Now, with what the Brotherhood had done, with what_ Magneto _had done, Charles was no longer confident that their friendship would keep Magneto from crushing Charles in the very chair Erik had put him in so as to remove a threat rather than a friend._

_Of course, he held out some distant crumb of hope. After all, he didn't think that Magneto even knew how bad it had been, in the months after Cuba. The days in the hospital, countless hours of rehabilitation, having to rely on a nurse even now for some of the basic tasks people needed to perform. Charles had to believe that Magneto didn't know, because the thought that he knew and didn't care enough to come visit him one last time was too much to be borne._

_Charles dragged his thoughts from that train of thought, too. He'd dwelled on whether Erik knew, what Magneto and Professor X might say to one another when they finally met more than once before. The Brotherhood of Mutants should have his attention, not worrying over whether the very leader of that group knew or cared about Charles' disability._

_He finally focused once more on the room around him, where his first students awaited his response to the information they'd gathered on the Brotherhood._

_He smiled at them, and from their expressions, it was cool and terrible. His heart certainly felt that way._

_“How do you feel about the name X-Men?“_

~*~ 

It was more of absent thing, these days, when he played with the bullet. 

It was something to do with his hands, something to occupy at least a small corner of his mind. He didn't really think about it when he did it; the bullet was as much a part of his senses to him as the coin had once been. 

Like Schmidt's coin, the bullet served as a constant reminder, but it was not the fierce, sharp, _active_ pain of the coin that constantly sizzled against his skin like a burn. The bullet was a marker of a different type of failure, one that thudded dully in his blood almost as though it had always been there. It wasn't something he used to hone his mind with hatred and anger, it was just a reminder of how a single, tiny thing could tip the balance of the scales. He felt completely and utterly dwarfed by the disfigured bullet that wasn't larger than his thumbnail. If his redirection had been off by a marginal degree, the bullet might have completely missed Charles. 

Or it might have killed him. 

Regret surged at the thought, as it always did, and he stared at the bullet, staring at the sharp edges and curved lines that he'd long since memorized. He of all people knew what even the smallest piece of metal could do to the human body when moving at high enough forces, but again and again, all he could see was Charles' arching back, the open scream of his mouth. Of all the things he'd meant to do that day, hurting Charles like that hadn't even been on the list. He'd known there was a very real chance that might go their separate ways, considering how differently they thought, but irreconcilable differences in philosophies wouldn't stop them from being able to discuss about anything and everything as they had before. Or so Erik had hoped. He hadn't thought hadn't thought that the differentiation between them would be drawn so unequivocally, as it had been when Charles had stood on that beach, eyes alive with hurt and righteous anger and called the men on the ships good, honest and innocent. 

Erik didn't think he'd met a soldier like that in his entire life. 

The blame couldn't entirely be Charles' though, even Erik managed to recognize the thought with lucidity once he got past the choking fury. The accusation that MacTaggert had thrown at him in Schmidt's facility that day—how she'd fired the bullet, but he'd made sure it got there—clawed at his heart. The woman had been an idiot to even think that firing a gun would do any good. He'd deflected the bullets, after all, deflected them—and hit Charles. 

At the thought, Erik stopped twirling the bullet in midair and let it drop into his palm as he stared down at Charles' thin face and thinner body. Wright and Cooper had done their best, of course, but they weren't trained for this level of care, and Charles had slowly lost fat and muscle that they were struggling to maintain. If he didn't awaken soon, it might be necessary to take him to a hospital again or try to find some private care. That would be a nightmare Erik could barely face despite his best efforts. 

They didn't dare abandon Charles to the system, because no matter how much money was involved, there was always the chance that someone might track them down by following the money or that someone wouldn't keep their mouth shut as they promised. The only other option was forcing a human to help them, but even that would compromise Ithaca more than it already was with MacTaggert still lingering in the halls like a shade. They'd probably find allies in each other, and he didn't trust MacTaggert to keep from making plans for escape. Hank, Alex and Sean were altogether too trusting of the woman, and he couldn't seem to convince them of her danger—the only thing that would be able convince them was an active betrayal of the mutant cause, and by then it might be too late. They weren't at that point yet, though, and Erik deliberately turned his thoughts from such unpleasant matters to the reason he had come to speak with Charles. 

The end of January now rolling around and Charles' coma had shown absolutely no progress, much to the disappointment of everyone. While Cooper, Wright and Hank had run scores of tests, everything from attempting to see if they could detect anomalies in Charles' brainwaves to x ray after x ray of every possible angle of Charles' skull, neck and back to see if there was something broken that they'd managed to miss. Despite their best efforts, they could find no answer to their dilemma. Charles was simply absent in all of the ways that mattered, and there was nothing that they could do about it. 

Erik swallowed at the thought, his sight going blurry for a moment before he controlled himself. He wasn't here to dwell on three months of increasingly strained hope. Erik was trying to focus on the good things right now, and there were, admittedly, some very good things going on. He couldn't quite keep the smile off his face about the news he was about to share. He was sorely out of practice with seeing the silver lining, but as that had been the only thing Charles sometimes saw, he'd gotten some grudging practice even if in nothing more than self-defense. Still, even he had to admit that things were finally looking up. 

Using the little information he'd managed to get out of MacTaggert to direct Raven, Sean and Alex's investigation, and then subsequently getting Azazel and Raven to actually retrieve the necessary files, they'd finally started to make a real dent into the information the government had on them. They couldn't do anything about what the agents already knew, at least not until Charles was awake and able to defend them, but losing so many files and preventing them from finding out anything new would at least limit the damage the government was able to do. He told this all to Charles with what was probably excessive glee; Charles didn't like to think of themselves as against the government while Erik had known their needs would only parallel each other for a short time before they became tangential once again. 

Once he'd exhausted his topic, Erik paused, thinking. The only thing that chafed about the entire situation, now that they really were making some headway, was the fact that Erik himself couldn't go out. He was too recognizable; even when he'd been involved with the CIA, he'd known that they'd marked him as hostile and dangerous, the one most likely to make a mission go to hell. Azazel and Raven simply had defenses that he himself did not. Still, he held back the words. With so many good things, his own desire to dive head-first in the fray was just his frustration with having spent so many weeks trapped within Ithaca. 

Erik fell silent after a while, once the bright points of his life these days had been poured into Charles' dead silence. It wasn't the same as when he was awake and alive, interrupting Erik every other word for clarification or to fondly argue one point or another. Still, something was better than nothing, and Hank had told him that there were a few options they were looking into, potentially to stimulate Charles' brain. At those words, Azazel had raised one dark brow. He hadn't needed to say anything for Erik to know that he was thinking that Emma might better serve them than some random experiments that hadn't even been fully proved. Erik had scowled at him for a brief moment before studiously ignoring Azazel. He'd made his feeling on allowing Emma Frost fuck with Charles' mind quite clear, and had no interest in opening the matter up for discussion again. 

The bullet was spinning lazily in the air again as Erik mused, staring at the far wall and letting the sounds of the various machines around Charles wash over him. When his stomach growled, he gave a little grin and shook his head. Dinner time, it seemed. A cup of coffee wouldn't be a bad idea either, all things considered, since he'd spent a long day staring at paperwork. Sometimes, it seemed the universe was made of it. Or maybe it was best to skip the coffee. It was getting late, well into the evening if his internal clock was anything to go by. He just hoped that there would be something decent for him to scrounge up, since the others had probably eaten and gone their separate ways by now, since no one was assigned to cook this evening. 

Standing, Erik yawned and rubbed at his eyes. His weariness wasn't helped by the fact that he'd been up with the dawn, chilling his toes as he did a quick run through the surrounding mountains. His geomagnetic orientation was extremely helpful in that regard; no matter how far he went or in which direction, he was always able to get back again. Leaving Ithaca wasn't something he or any of the others did often, because it carried a certain amount of risk, but sometimes it was just necessary to go out and escape the claustrophobic walls of Ithaca. 

Erik gave his goodnights to Charles, for all the man didn't really need them. Resting his fingertips against the pulse in Charles' wrist for just a moment, Erik's mouth twisted up and he made his escape from the room. He paced silently through the stone corridors, raising his brows as he approached the kitchen and heard chaos ensuing. His brow crinkled; he'd been sure that no one was supposed to cook tonight—if they had, they'd have come to get him since this wasn't the first time he'd been absorbed in paperwork and forgotten to come out and eat. Curious, he came to lean in the doorway, looking at those inside. 

Sean was standing in front of the stove with a large, unwieldy griddle with a batter cooking slowly on top. He was also singing loudly, only a little out of tune as he danced poorly and gestured erratically with his spatula. Alex dodged what would have been a blow to the eye with a sort of thoughtless grace that said there had already been several very close misses and he'd given up trying to dissuade Sean's flailing. Alex waited for just a moment for Sean to flip the last of the pancakes onto the plate that already contained perhaps a dozen of them. They were not the thin, almost delicate naleśniki that his mother had made when he was young, stuffed with whatever fruits he'd been able to find and the homemade cheese his mother likes to make, but something altogether more hearty. Still, they were golden brown and fluffy and they smelled absolutely delicious. Snatching up the newest batch of pancakes, Alex slid them onto the table. 

Erik thought vaguely that this must be what piranhas feeding must look like. Hank with his newly enhanced speed and muscle, managed to stick his fork into three pancakes and get them onto his plate before the others had a proper grip on their forks. Cooper, surprisingly, was the next fastest and managed to knock Wright and Raven's forks aside in order to scoop two more for herself. The remaining four pancakes were ripped apart by Azazel, Raven and Chandler, leaving Wright gaping at the empty plate and glaring at them all. 

"You need to get faster," Raven informed her cheerfully through a mouthful of pancake that was pretty much swimming in syrup and chocolate chips. That much sugar in a single sitting made Erik's stomach turn a little bit. She ate them the same way Charles did; Erik had been introduced to the notion of a pancake house on their recruitment trip, and had been frankly astonished at how much sugar and tea Charles needed to become a properly functioning human in the mornings. Personally, if Erik was going to eat the American-style pancakes, he preferred them with some sort of fruit preserves spread on top. Either way, he'd been under the impression that pancakes were a breakfast food, not one served in the evening hours. 

Alex picked up his own plate, which still had half a stack of pancakes on it, and lounged against the stove. "Good call, on getting the big box of Bisquick," Alex called companionably to Azazel. "We're already through half of the batter." 

Azazel, who was using his tail to pour some syrup on his pancakes while he dished out some blueberries and some sort of nut on top with his hands, only looked up briefly to flash a grin that showed what would be an alarming number of teeth if he hadn't had a smear of syrup near the corner of his mouth. "Да," he agreed. He warded off Wright's attempt at a sneak attack with his tail. 

"Erik!" Raven shouted, finally noticing him in the doorway, grinning broadly. "Just in time! Sean is making pancakes!" 

"I can see that," Erik said with a grin of his own. "Lots of them, too." 

"Very good ones," Hank added, thankfully without pancake in his mouth, just in case the war over them hadn't made it clear enough; then again, maybe it hadn't. Most of the others had stomachs of steel, able to digest even the most unfortunate of cooking accidents. Still, the endorsement could only be a good thing. 

"You've got like, the best timing ever," Sean added, stopping his singing for a moment. He flipped two more perfectly cooked pancakes onto a plate and held it out. Erik surreptitiously peered into the trash, noticing the burnt and/or undercooked (sometimes both) remains of what had to be the better part of a dozen pancakes. Erik supposed it was good to know that Sean hadn't magically gained any mystical pancake-making-skills. He took the plate. 

As he went for the raspberry preserves that he knew were in the fridge, he asked curiously, "Whose idea was it for pancakes?" Sean pointed to Azazel, Azazel to Alex and Alex to Sean. Everyone else pointed to one of the three main perpetrators, except for Chandler, who looked faintly bemused at the question. "Ah," Erik said simply; not the trio he would have guessed, but it was amusing, the way the three of them are all scowling at each other for pointing their fingers in each other's direction. He picked up the preserves with one hand, balanced his plate in the other and whisked one of the knives off the table with his power. 

The sound seemed to signal to everyone Erik's tacit approval of the impromptu pancake party. This was true—so long as Erik got to eat and didn't have to clean up, he was more than willing to accept a stack of pancakes as his due. Uncapping the preserves with one hand, Erik idly used his powers to spread the raspberries across the golden surface, laying them on thickly. With his free hands, he snagged a third pancake from the newly growing pile that Sean was stacking. 

Holding the pancake like a slice of bread while he continued to spread preserves over the other two pieces, he watched Sean munch on his own breakfast-for-dinner from one hand with his spatula still in the other. There were four or five pancakes being cooked on the griddle at a time, which explained how Sean managed to make them so fast. As Erik kept an eye on the young man, Sean watched as the center of the pancakes started bubbling slightly. When he saw that, Sean neatly slide the spatula beneath the still-cooking batter and turned it over, making a satisfied little sound when the golden brown color was revealed. 

Raven stood, snagging the orange juice. She poured Erik a glass of it, setting it besides him and snagging one last pancake. It was still hot and she hissed when it touched her skin, tossing it lightly back and forth between her hands as she walked back to her spot at the table. Once it was on the plate, it was once more smothered by chocolate and syrup. 

Conversation stared up again, a little bit more muted this time, but Erik didn't mind. He let the jokes and laughter and general atmosphere buoy him as he slowly made his way through his food. Sean eventually ran out of batter and put the bowl in the sink to soak while the griddle cooled. 

It was all very domestic, Erik realized belatedly as he finished off the last bite of his meal and licked his fingers clean of the preserves. Raspberries were delicious and reminded him of summer. At the height of the season in Poland, before the invasion of Germany, his family sometimes managed to get some of the little sour raspberries in the dilapidated bush towards the back of their property. Sticking the knife into the preserves, he turned it into a spoon and pulled it out, savoring the jam slowly. 

Raven put her head down on the table, barely missing planting her face into her plate, and let out a little groan. "Oh my God, I'm so full. So, so full." She rubbed her stomach. "So good. Sean, I think you should just spend your entire life making pancakes for me to eat." 

Sean, who had since wandered over to the table and was stretched out on the floor where he was in the way of pretty much anyone who wanted to move, didn't answer. His limbs were limp and spread akimbo as though the stone floor was comfortable enough that he was planning on dropping into sleep any moment now. Alex kicked Sean aside lightly to make room for himself, and then sprawled out next to him. Erik watched in amusement as Azazel picked up a walnut and flicked it at the two boys, neither of whom stirred. In the absence of reaction, Azazel's mouth twitched in a little smile and he tipped his chair back, precariously balancing himself. The others weren't much better off, with Hank lounging in his chair and Cooper, Wright and Chandler in various prone positions. 

"Sugar coma," Alex grunted finally. "That's a thing, right?" 

Wright barely stirred. "If it isn't, it should be." 

Stepping over Alex and Sean without landing on the floor himself, Erik gathered up the dishes from the table and put them into the sink to soak. Even he knew better than to try and get the syrup off now; even the twenty minutes it had been sitting on the plates had turned it into something with a thick and cement-like consistency. Unless Erik was planning on going at them with a chisel instead of a scrub brush, no headway was going to be made unless they soaked in hot water with plenty of soap for an hour or two. Overnight would be even better; they could deal with such practicalities as cleanliness in the morning. 

He worked silently, letting everyone enjoy their food comas. He didn't feel overfull himself, mostly because the first time he'd gotten a chance to eat real food after the camps, he'd over-eaten and spent three days being horribly ill. It was the sort of thing that left an impression, and now the too-tight feeling of excessive overindulgence made him feel sick. Still, the three pancakes and the raspberry preserves left him feeling utterly sated and warm all the way through. Whatever else, Raven had been right: Sean definitely had a here-to-fore undiscovered ability to make truly excellent pancakes. 

When the dishes were soaking, Erik turned once more to lean against the counter, idly fingering the bullet in his pocket at he stared at the blissful expressions of the mutants that had joined him. He felt vaguely incredulous of himself, staring at the group of them with what was probably an expression better suited to Charles' cherubic features than his own hard ones, but he couldn't seem to help it. 

Erik knew that, nevertheless, all good things have to come to an end. 

This one ended with Raven finally moving, looking tired. It was a well-worn sort of tiredness, borne more out of enjoyment of good food and company than the weight of the world sitting upon her shoulders. Beneath the exhaustion, she looked strangely rejuvenated. "Alright, alright," she murmured as she stretched. "I think this means it ought to be an early night for us all." 

"Don't wanna move," Alex pointed out unhelpfully. Sean, Azazel and Wright all made sounds of agreement that had Raven rolling her eyes. "Also, you're not my mom," he added, as though that was going to make any sort of difference. 

"Thank God for small favors, then," Raven told him cheerfully. She kicked at the bottom of his shoe repeatedly until Alex made a sound of disgust and pulled his foot out of the way. "I don't know what I'd do, if you were my kid. Beat you, probably." Alex made a snorting sound and rolled over out of Raven's reach. "All of you, come on." 

Cooper sighed at Raven's prodding, but obeyed. "We should check in on Xavier," she agreed only a little mournfully. She twisted in the chair, making her back crack in a series of little pops that had Chandler making a face. She patted Wright on the back. "Come on, come on." 

Wright cracked open an eye, sighed and then slowly drew herself up. "God, I hate you so much right now," she said to no one in particular. She stretched too, tilting back and exposing a thin line of skin on her stomach. "I am completely and utterly stuffed." 

"Aren't we all?" Cooper said with no small amount of amusement. "I fully intend to collapse within the hour." When she stood, she wasn't as graceful as Raven, but she stretched again, standing on her toes for a second or two as she reached towards the ceiling and the motion was surprisingly fluid. She grabbed on of Wright's hands, and over the other woman's laughing protests, she managed to pull the doctor to her feet. 

"Seriously, hate you," Wright groaned, passing a hand over her eyes. Cooper just sighed and started pushing her out of the room. "Goodnight, everyone!" Wright called over her shoulder, sounding much less like the hardened doctor that treated Charles and more like the woman Erik was growing to understand: bright, sharp, but with laugh lines around the corners of her mouth even after spending years slaving away for Schmidt. 

Everyone else chimed back their own good nights, Erik joining them. "Come on, give me a hand," Raven demanded of Erik. He shook his head, grinning smugly, and Raven made a face at him. Grabbing hold of Alex's hands, she pulled. With a yelp, Alex rose despite having intended to be a dead weight in the face of Raven's attempt. They tended to forget that in addition to being able to take any form that pleased her, she was quite a bit stronger and faster than she looked. Alex tried not to stumble over his own feet once he was actually upright, but he had to brace himself on Hank's shoulder. Hank grinned a little, showing teeth, but the expression nevertheless remained amiable. 

"You're next," Raven informed Sean, who pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes for a few moments. 

"I'm moving, I'm moving!" he protested, but Raven needed to nudge him once or twice before he actually made the effort to get off the floor. 

"Seriously, go to bed," Raven told Alex and Sean alike, only sounding like she was half joking. Erik wondered briefly if she'd picked up her mothering tendencies from Charles. It was entirely possible. The man moonlighted as a mother hen. 

"Yes, yes," Sean agreed around a yawn. "Oh, the dishes—" 

"I've got them." The words came out a little more gently than Erik intended and he tried to remain firm as he added, "Just this once." 

"Of course." Hank wasn't even trying to keep his amusement hidden. For that matter, neither was Raven. Making faces at them or telling them off was beneath his dignity, Erik reminded himself. Still, it was a close call. "Ed and I will be in the lab for a little while still, though. We have to finish the gel we were working on." 

"You and your science." Raven rolled her eyes expressively before holding up her hand to stall the forthcoming protest. "Go on, shoo. I'll help Erik with the dishes." Hank nodded his thanks, gave a brief farewell, and both scientists departed, already starting a conversation about their latest hypothesis. Raven watched them go for just a second with something approaching fondness, exasperation and sadness in her eyes. 

"Really?" Raven looked up, surprised when Sean spoke, but the words were directed at Erik. "I was the one that started with the pancakes, after all." 

Even Erik could see that despite having inhaled what was probably an unhealthy amount of sugar, both Alex and Sean were all but dead on their feet now that they'd stopped moving. "Get some rest. You're of no use if you're tired," he snapped, but Alex and Sean didn't look perturbed by the harsh words. Erik could only assume it was because he was still smiling a little and tried to make himself to look stern instead. "Unless you really _want_ to lend a hand, because I can think of half a dozen things I've been meaning to get done and if you've got that much energy then I'll put you to work." 

Sean snorted in laughter, but waved off. "Hell no," he retorted, and both the younger men made their escape while they were still able to. 

Azazel, who had watched this all in silence, raised a brow. "Don't look at me," he said with a smirk, and disappeared. 

"Showoff," Raven muttered, but like Erik's earlier threats to make Alex and Sean help clean up, the display of temper lacked heat. Azazel had proven himself a dozen times over, not only by keeping Ithaca safe from outsiders but by getting Raven, Alex and Sean out of more than one set of close encounters with either government agents or the shady side of the law. Not that they couldn't defend themselves, but even Erik recognized that it was better to simply disappear than to throw rings of plasma at the people attacking you and causing an easily distinguishable ruckus, for example. 

Alex was many things, but subtle wasn't one of them. 

With everyone finally gone, and the kitchen once more calm and quiet, Raven came to stand beside Erik, warm all along his side. She leaned against his shoulder, invading his personal space with ease. Erik stifled a sigh, but let her do it. Physical comfort was usually something that eluded him, but this was simple enough. "Take the night off," Erik suggested to her. "You deserve it." Simple words, but all the more powerful for having been so rare. 

Raven shook her head, but Erik saw her eyes flicker to the door. "There aren't that many dishes really," Erik reassured her. "And I don't mind." 

She wavered, biting her lip a little. "I wanted to go visit Charles. I didn't get the chance to earlier, but the dishes won't take that long." Still, she looked at Erik hopefully. Erik was starting to get the trick of reading the children's faces, even if they weren't really children anymore; Raven wanted very badly to go see Charles but wanted Erik's permission to leave the dishes to Erik's hands. 

"This is," Erik began, "a one-time offer. I'd take advantage of this while you still can, unless you want me to give you the tasks that I was going to pass along to Alex and Sean." He raised a brow meaningfully at her and Raven took the hint and gave him a quick hug before stepping back. 

"Thank you!" Raven sang out, clasping her hands together. "Have fun!" Like everyone else, she left with the brief goodbyes and Erik was finally left alone in the kitchen with the slow and steady drip of the faucet . 

Erik put his hands on the edge of the cold metal for a moment, leaning over it and breathing deeply. The smell of pancakes lingered in the air, and the sticky sweetness of the syrup. There was soap, too, the fresh scent cutting through the heaviness. There really wasn't much for Erik to do, since he'd already put away the preserves, the syrup, as well as the fruits and nuts and chocolates that had been sitting out in their proper places. Taking the sponge and the dish soap, Erik started with the griddle, thoroughly cleaning it of the long overcooked pancake batter and automatically smoothing the scratch in the metal on the left side as he did so. 

With that done, it was just a matter of working through the plates, cups and cutlery as well as the spatula and bowl that the batter had been in. Erik begun running the hot water and worked through the plates first, setting the clean dishes on the nearby counter, until he'd successfully made his way through the entire set. From there, it was an easy business to pull one of the many rags they kept around for this very reason in order to dry them and put them away. 

It was soothing work, Erik had to admit. For once, having his hands busy didn't mean that his head was too full of thoughts that he'd rather avoid. Instead, he was able to immerse himself in the work without thought, nothing more pressing than the next dish to wash and dry on his mind. It wasn't until he was finishing the last of the dishes and organizing them to be put away that he really came back to himself feeling relaxed and ready to sleep. 

He rotated his shoulders, trying to loosen them a little bit as he put everything back where they belonged. Impromptu though the occasion had been, it had been enjoyable and Erik allowed himself a secretive little smile, tucking the memory alongside lighting the menorah with his mother or spending an evening debating philosophy in Charles' company. Bright moments that didn't involve war or destruction or even the mutant cause. 

Erik was so focused on his cleaning that didn't recognize the rumbling for what it was, at first. 

Even after months spent in Ithaca, it wasn't a concern that had been fully realized. Vague stories of mountaineers getting lost in snow storms, or falling off an edge, or otherwise suffering from some horrible accident went hand in hand with the mountains themselves. Besides, they weren't trekking through the mountains without all of the proper equipment or during the winter season when no one in their right mind went climbing. 

Yet with the true mountains, with the idyllic images of snow-capped stone and clouds shrouding the peaks, there came one disaster that surpassed all the others. 

The avalanche. 

Flowing snow potentially heavy enough and fast enough to rip trees out with their roots still attached. Fast enough to crush a car. Fast enough to wreck a house. 

Fast enough to kill a person. 

The rumbling didn't register at first. After all, they were safe within the stone corridors of Ithaca, where the freezing wind and terrible snow couldn't reach them. 

Or so Erik hoped—and then he felt the iron in the stones moving. 

The plates dropped, shattered. Erik reached out with his powers wildly, trying to grab hold of whatever metal was in the stones in and around Ithaca, trying to keep anything from collapsing. He tried, and failed; his powers were not meant to withstand several hundred tons of snow moving at a velocity fast enough to shake Ithaca's foundations, and with a resounding crack, one of the kitchen walls began to give out under the pressure. 

With a scream of twisting metal, the countertop ripped itself from where it lay and collided with the wall, bolstering it. He needed to get out, needed to get the kids out before the pressure of the newly distributed snow and stone made the whole of Ithaca turn into rubble. 

He threw out his hands again, and this time is was the balance of Schmidt's repulsive attempt to pretend that what he'd done to Erik was for the best against the force of that very evening's pancakes and effusive good humor that filled his veins. He reached out and this time he caught hold of all the metal in the stone around him, following the veins and crumbling pockets and the smallest of particles and commanding it to stop. 

Just to _stop_. 

With his focus already wavering, he shouted, " _Azazel!_ " 

Then Erik tried to keep Ithaca from shattering apart.


	13. Discovery

_Charles had thought of this moment a million times over._

_Sometimes, he imagined that Erik already knew. That even though he'd left Charles under that hot sun, left him with a broken back that was secondary to his broken heart, Erik had come to visit him somewhere amidst the haze of drugs and sleep and pain. That Erik knew what had happened to Charles and was staying away on purpose—out of guilt, perhaps, or shame or fear or possibly even disgust. Charles wasn't sure whether the fact that Erik was staying away or why he was staying away was more important, but either way Charles couldn't quite keep the knowledge that Erik might know and have purposefully remained away from occasionally eating away at him._

_Other times, Charles was completely sound in his conviction that Erik was as ignorant of Charles' status as Charles was of his. Erik wouldn't want to know what Charles was planning so long as his work didn't interfere with Erik's war; it would be better for them all if it was as clean a break as possible, given the circumstances. With all of them building their lives up again in the face of the destruction Charles' and Erik's decisions had wrought on the beach, it was more sensible that they keep from seeing each other, lest they accidentally leave a space for the other to inhabit._

_Or maybe Erik was purposefully blind. Charles had kept the fact that he couldn't feel his legs from Raven and Erik, knowing it would incontrovertibly change their decision, it was true, but Erik wasn't a fool and had to at least suspect that Charles had sustained more damage than he admitted. Whatever else could be said, both his sister and his best friend had their own sense of duty that would keep them nearby at least until Charles was capable of functioning. If Erik had admitted to himself that maybe Charles truly wasn't fine, that what Erik and Moira had done might have caused irreparable damage, he wouldn't have been able to find it in himself to just leave Charles on the beach, and he and Raven had to go then and there, if there were going to do it properly at all._

_Only rarely did Charles admit that it was probably just a combination oversight and hindsight and foresight and insight and first sight that managed to intersect without ever connecting and left the meaning still in pieces on the floor. Charles' injury and the fact that he had all but dropped off the face of the Earth were probably in two very neatly compartmentalized parts of Erik's mind, just as Charles' ability to read the mind of others and Charles picking up thoughts from Erik's own head seemed to exist in two completely different spheres of reality for the man._

_Those thoughts were the most troubling of all. Erik, blindsided by Charles' chair-bound form, was liable to react poorly, especially given that he was likely to discover this fact in the heat of battle, when the newly established X Men came to stop Magneto's plans. Though Charles didn't plan to be directly involved, there was always the possibility they'd need someone of Charles' skills to keep any more innocent lives from being taken—mutant and human alike. He'd go to his friends' aid, as he always would, and Magneto would—Erik would—_

_There Charles' mind stopped. He didn't know what Erik would do. He didn't know what he himself would do. He barely knew what to think about his new paraplegia most days, and it was his own body. So often those concerns were eclipsed by thoughts of was how to make the school better, safer, how to raise a generation of students of all ages, races, sexes, mutations to regard themselves and those around them as being worthwhile._

_That last part was generally a work in progress._

_Emphasis on the work._

_Still, the fact remained that Charles almost wished that Erik_ would _confront him over the issue, no matter the circumstances of the discovery, simply so it no longer plagued his thoughts. He briefly wondered whether he shouldn't track the other man down and tell Erik himself to force the issue, but he never seemed to be able to go through with it. There were already too many reasons not to do so, too many unknowns, and besides, Magneto had made it very clear that Charles wasn't someone he could consider a friend any longer. They were as wholly out of each other's lives as they could be._

_Until the X Men._

_Charles suspected it was the X Men that finally brought the matter to a head in the end. As long as Charles was uninvolved, he could be safely ignored. It was Charles' students that were standing against the Brotherhood, however, Charles' students that were foiling Magneto's plans and protecting the humans with whom Magneto had started a war._

_It meant that Charles needed to be stopped._

_Charles had agreed, after months of consideration, to give a guest lecture at Columbia in the biology department. He'd expected it to be a reasonably attended lecture, since he had known Professor Michaelson when he'd studied briefly at Oxford himself, but he'd been out of the scientific world for the better part of two years. Still, at least he was in the process of writing another paper given some of the data that he and Hank had collected. He would have plenty of material to discuss even if he was no longer attached to the University of Oxford as a professor or otherwise._

_Magneto had probably intended it to be a warning at the time. He hadn't come to do battle, merely to make sure that Charles knew the consequences of his actions. If Magneto had, he probably wouldn't have chosen to confront Charles in such a public location, as close to neutral territory as the pair of them could find at the moment._

_Either way, Charles certainly hadn't expected the man's arrival._

_Magneto had shown up in the back of the auditorium in the midst of the lecture, using his powers to keep the door from making a sound as it opened and closed. The only reason Charles noticed it because a strip of light had briefly illuminated a figure entering. He had to be wearing the helmet, as well, because the arrival of a new mind didn't register with Charles' telepathy, though he was so involved in speaking that he didn't think to consider that fact odd. With the house lights down so that Charles could show some images on the slide projector in addition to being involved in the midst of explaining the main part of his presentation, in the end Charles didn't truly notice that someone new had arrived._

_It wasn't until the end of the lecture had been completed, and the lights were once again raised and Charles was patiently answering questions from curious undergraduates that the gleam of metal in the audience caught his eye. He rolled forward past the podium thoughtlessly, eyes darting through the crowd even as he continued to answer the recent most question posed to him._

_Their eyes met, Magneto's mouth tightening into a harsh line even as Erik's eyes darkened with a storm of emotions._

_Eyes widened, Charles stammered out something, some sort of excuse about how they were out of time, and even though Michaelson's face creased in confusion from down in the chairs, Charles made his escape back off of the stage where Alex was waiting for him._

_“Push me,“ Charles snapped. Alex's eyes widened. Rarely, if ever, did Charles allow help with his chair these days. “We have to go, now,“ Charles explained in a rush as Alex took hold of the wheelchair's handles, tapping his fingers impatiently against his unfeeling legs as Alex carefully maneuvered his chair past some of the obstacles that hadn't been moved out of the way. “Magneto's here, he's in the audience, I saw him, and I—“ he was nearly jerked out of his chair when Alex abruptly stopped, the words getting cut off._

_The younger man's entire visage blackened, fury boiling up as Charles' words reached him. Heat shimmered in the air, just barely restrained, and Alex's muscles tightened all at once as he tried to keep plasma from materializing around him. He breathed deeply once. “I'm going to kill him,“ he ground out, and Charles' heart hurt to hear it, never mind the fact that Magneto had broken Sean's arm last time they'd come in contact with one another and if Hank hadn't been swift enough, it could have been his neck._

_“Not here, not now,“ Charles cautioned. “Not in the middle of a building with several hundred students in it. That's why we need to leave. I'm not going to have casualties on my hands. Please, take the chair so I can get this place clear.“ He closed his eyes once Alex was pushing the chair once more, spreading his powers out and amplifying the small—and in some cases, large—part of everyone attending that had been bored, or hungry, or tired, or thinking even briefly about something else and making it something that was imperative to deal with as soon as possible. As the people in the auditorium began rushing to exit, he did the same thing to the wider building, knowing that it was unlikely that with his chair, they'd be able to escape before Magneto made his appearance. At this point, so long as no one was caught in the crossfire, Charles would be pleased._

_When Charles opened his eyes again, his ears were filled with the sounds of hassled people needing to be elsewhere and frustrated with the wait. Charles' heart beat double time as Alex slung their belongings across the back of the chair and did his best to keep Magneto from surprising them by appearing suddenly from a darkened corridor. “Quickly, quickly,“ Charles muttered even though he knew that Alex was moving as fast as could be expected given that they still needed to wait for the elevator to take them down a floor. In addition, Alex's control was still experimental at best, and no building, no matter how new, was built with the intention of withstanding plasma blasts that were upwards of eight or nine hundred Kelvin at the minimum._

_“Relax, Prof,“ Alex hissed back, trying and failing to sound jovial. Charles didn't need telepathy to feel the crackling tension that was practically pouring off of his friend. The elevator chimed as it arrived, making Charles start. Alex pushed them both on, guardedly standing in front of Charles as he pressed the button for the first floor. Alex had learned more than a little in the field, it seemed. With Charles' condition, an elevator would be the perfect spot for a sneak attack because they had nowhere to maneuver. “I've gotten better at this.“_

_“I know, Havok,“ Charles responded lightly, trying to keep his voice calm. Still, this was a potentially dangerous situation, and it wouldn't hurt to remind them both of it. Alex just gave him a half-hearted smile as the elevator doors opened once more._

_Grabbing a hold of Charles' chair, Alex determinedly kept it from moving, thoughts of_ should have brought at least Sean, can't cover the Prof and still attack _and_ gonna kill that son of a bitch, _slamming into Charles as Alex slid past Charles and into the main entrance, inspecting everything. Charles tried to ignore it, listening carefully as the building emptied around them and giving last minute encouragements for those who'd been lingering. After a moment of careful examination of his surroundings, Alex nodded. Charles, who had been doing his own survey of the area, couldn't sense any of the members of the Brotherhood around them. That meant one of two things: either Magneto had come alone, or he'd managed to get helmets made for the rest of his people._

_Taking a deep breath, Charles grabbed a hold of the wheels and rolled himself forward._

_As though he'd been waiting for just this occasion, Magneto glided down the remainder of the stairs and came to stand at the bottom, gazing impassively at Alex and Charles. “Good afternoon,“ he greeted in that smooth baritone._

_Alex's arms flexed, and it was only Charles' snapped,_ "Havok _,“ in tones that broke no dissention that kept Alex from completing the creation of the plasma rings and hurtling them towards Magneto. In a voice that was several degrees milder but a thousand more wary, he made his own welcome to Magneto, accompanied by a short nod, without taking his eyes off the metallokinetic for an instant._

_If Charles hadn't been there the moment Magneto realized why Charles was sitting during the guest lecture, he might have believed that he was utterly unconcerned and in control of himself even in the face of Charles' disability. Charles had, though, and could thus see where Magneto was struggling to keep Erik from breaking through, in the slightest of tremors in his hands, in the rage and pain that was living in his eyes and every line of his body, in the single-minded focus. It was strangely gratifying to see that Charles could still read the man even after all of this time, but Charles no longer knew what to do with the information._

_“Did you need something, Erik?“ For Magneto would always be Erik at the heart of things to him, just as Mystique would forever be Raven. “I hadn't thought the study of tracking genetic mutations on the chromosomal level would be so fascinating to you that you had to approach me after my lecture.“_

_Magneto gestured with one hand sharply. “Don't give me that bullshit,“ he snarled. “What the_ fuck _are you in?“_

_Heart in throat, Charles affected bemusement, going so far as to stare at the chair beneath him as though it had spontaneously formed without his knowledge in order to buy himself an extra precious second or two of thought. “A wheelchair,“ he finally said rather tonelessly. “You'll find, I'm afraid, that they are one of the few manners by which a—a paraplegic can move.“ His voice only cracked a little towards the end, for which he was grateful._

_Magneto just stared at him, aghast. His mouth worked for a second or two and then he swallowed. “The—the beach. You—you didn't—Charles, you didn't—“ Erik struggled for a moment more, and then fell silent. “Charles,“ he rasped, and his eyes were too bright and too blue for Charles to stand._

_Charles knew that shaking was probably a bad thing, but he couldn't seem to stop it. “I didn't tell you,“ Charles completed for Erik, and no one with a beating heart should sound that dead. “Of course I didn't. What would I say? That I was frightened, that I was weary, that I—“ Charles shook his head, fighting to get the words clear of his mouth, “That I_ couldn't feel my legs?" 

_The words released an avalanche of realization. Charles couldn't have told them how his body had been broken on the beach because they would have stayed and Charles would never have known if it was out of pity or fear or something else altogether and he'd have torn the world apart himself before he let the two people he loved most bind themselves to him in such a manner. He couldn't have lived with himself, with them, if they chose to stay with him because they felt they_ needed _to, or worse, if they felt obligated to. As though he was just a chore to be taken care of and then wash their hands of. Charles bowed his head with a tiny gasp as his chest squeezed all at once._

"Charles _,“ Erik whispered and Charles had hoped so dearly that he was past the point of his own heart breaking. “I—“ he stopped himself, clearly trying to figure out what he was supposed to say or do, trying to figure out what could possibly make this alright. “I'm going to kill her.“_

_“What?“ Charles and Alex shouted at the same time. Then, frantically, Charles screamed, “Stop, no,_ Erik, _it's not her fault, it's not your fault, stop, you can't do this,_ Erik! Erik!" _even as Erik started to take the building apart around them, thoughtlessly ripping a gaping wound in the nearest wall that made the entire building shudder._

_More importantly, Charles' chair began shuddering beneath him, crumpling beneath the force of Erik's immense strength with Charles still caught inside of it. Charles immediately began struggling to get free, hips and legs pinned and made even more immobile by the metal twisted around his body until he finally fell to one side, landing hard on his shoulder and letting out a little cry of pain. Panic made his breath come quick and fast. Where was Alex? Why wasn't he helping? “Oh God, oh God,“ he whimpered. This was one of the things that he'd always feared, that Erik would lose control and hurt not just Charles, but any one of the mutants that Erik had sworn to protect._

_“Erik,“ he choked. He couldn't move, but this hit him harder than his paraplegia because this was Erik doing this, Erik doing this_ to him. " _E-Erik, stop. Please.“ He couldn't even reach his lower body, the way that he was twisted, and the panic of being_ trapped _of being unable to rely on his mutation to get him out of trouble._ "Erik!" _he shrieked, terror overcoming him completely._

_Everything stopped._

_His breath was still coming in heaving gasps when quiet footsteps sounded across the marble floor. He couldn't seem to get his lungs full, couldn't focus on the fact that Erik had destroyed the only method of movement Charles had, and with the helmet, Charles couldn't even_ defend _himself if Erik turned his gaze in Charles' direction. He was trapped. God, he was trapped, defenseless for the first time in his life and that knowledge had him hyperventilating._

_A hand touched his shoulder lightly, and Charles flinched from the touch. He knew it was Erik's, could feel his warmth and calluses, but still he flinched away from him. Erik yanked the hand away as though Charles had burned him, and then it came back down on Charles's shoulder, alive and steady._

_“Shh, Charles,“ Erik murmured softly. Charles stilled. “It's alright.“ The hand was lifted away, and Charles didn't realize what had happened until Erik straightened him out. The broken wheelchair had been cast off to the side, his legs finally free once more. “It's alright, Charles.“ There was a frantic undertone to Erik's voice at the way Charles wasn't able to breathe properly; Charles could hear it clear as day, but he didn't have it in him to reassure the man._

_Charles took in a tight little breath, but Erik's warm body against his own, even if he couldn't feel it at all in his lower half, was comforting and familiar. Charles' breathing eased and slowed in response. Erik wouldn't hurt him purposefully. “For you, Charles. I won't go after her for you. One day, though, you'll see how wrong you are, and you'll come to my side.“ Erik flashed a little smile that was thin and humorless. “I promise I won't even say I told you so.“ His hand was warm on Charles' cheek. “Until then, though, her life is in your hands.“_

_Charles didn't know what to say, didn't know what he_ could _say. “Oh, Erik, I never could control you.“ The words were light, with a hint of a hysterical laugh burbling up. Still, there was an undertone of a sad admission clear in the words. He never could control Erik, never_ wanted _to control Erik; if he had Erik through control, it wasn't worth the cost._

_Erik's gentle hands laid him out on the floor, but despite Erik's best efforts he couldn't control the faint tremors all along his body; Charles could feel them even through his own. Alex, who Charles only now realized had been knocked unconscious by a flying piece of metal, was just getting up but Erik only spared him a glance. Charles didn't even do that, his entire being focused on Erik's indulgent and sorrowful expression. “Oh, Charles,“ Erik replied in the exact same mournful tone. Something soft brushed against his cheekbone, near his temple. Erik's mouth._

_“Until next time, Professor X,“ Erik whispered. “Until the day we are able to stand side by side.“_

_Charles didn't know what to say to that, didn't know what answer Erik was looking for. “Goodbye, Erik.“_

_Then Magneto was gone._

~*~ 

Azazel appeared in a burst of smoke at Erik's summons, and he had to suck in air past gritted teeth to bark out, "Get everyone out. Now. Charles first, me last." Azazel, for which Erik would forever be grateful, didn't try to get a proper explanation out of Erik. Instead, he contented himself with disappearing before the last bit of smoke from his arrival has dissipated. 

Straining, Erik felt himself shaking all over, little tremors of pain and tension coursing through his body. The earth was fighting him tooth and nail, and it wasn't long until Erik was forced to release the moving earth with the smallest pockets of metal; he could only hope that they weren't in stones too large. The snow he couldn't feel as such, but he could feel the end result. The metal and accompanying stone started buckling until the pressure as the wall in the kitchen had; even the metal he used to reinforce the halls and ceiling of Ithaca weren't bearing up well. He no longer had the necessary strength to do anything more than try and support it with raw power. Distantly, over the rumbling, he heard the shouts of the rest of his friends across Ithaca. 

He just needed to hold on for the time being, to exist solely in that point between rage and serenity: Charles, laughing over a joke. Schmidt, drawing a scalpel slowly through the flesh of Erik's upper arm. Raven, whistling cheerfully as she returned home with sheaves of paper after a successful mission. The slow and inexorable rotation of guns on ships. Erik managed to inhale slowly, trying to calm his heart as his body started to ache with the forces attempting to rip themselves apart. He could do this until Azazel got everyone out because the home didn't matter, not really, so much as the _people_ mattered and he would not lose a single life here. 

Something warm trickled from his nose, and he tasted blood. He closed his eyes, muscles screaming in protest. This wasn't like moving submarine, or even a satellite dish, where he had hundreds of thousands of kilograms of metal to work with and he only needed to access his power between rage and serenity in order to make it bend to his whim. This was telling a bit of metal the size of his fist to stop within a rock that is a hundred times as large. Erik could feel stones cracking apart under the force of his hold on the metal, and the snow obeyed him not at all. One of the corridor roofs snapped under the pressure and Erik cried out, yanking his power from where it could no longer do any good and trying to keep the rest of Ithaca from turning to rubble. 

"Erik!" Azazel grabbed his arms, shattering Erik's concentration. Immediately he could sense the weakening of Ithaca's structure. He blinked blearily at the teleporter, still feeling stretched too thin and hyper aware of all the shifting metal around him but too tired to keep trying to keep things together. If Azazel was here, that meant that he got everyone out. 

Everyone was safe. 

Erik sagged into Azazel's waiting arms, and let blissful darkness overtake him. 

The red-skinned mutant stared at the limp-boned man in his arms and growled in a long-suffering tone, "Поэтому мне?" Then they both disappeared in smoke. 

Moments later, rocks and snow landed where they had been standing. 

~*~ 

When Azazel reappeared with Erik unconscious in his harms, Raven muttered out a handful of very unkind things about weather in particular and snow specifically. She hated the cold and the wet, she really did, even if she didn't feel it in her natural form the way others did. "Hank," she snapped, sliding one arm under Erik's dead weight. Azazel supported Erik's other side. At Raven's command, Hank picked Erik up as though he were no more than a child, and kept the man close against his body. Hank was the only one even remotely prepared for the cold wasteland that Azazel had taken them to between his fur and heavy body mass. The others were shivering, and pressed in close to one another in an effort to conserve body heat. 

"Azazel, where are we?" Alex demanded, blowing on his fingers to ward off the cold. He was dressed in loose pants and a thin long-sleeved shirt that the wind cut right through. "What happened? I heard the rumbling rocks, and the next thing I know, I'm standing here." He rubbed at his arms, the skin prickling with gooseflesh. Sean and Moira huddled closer together; both lacked shoes which only compounded the loss of heat. Raven herself didn't notice the chill, but her skin seemed to protect her from everything but the very worst of the cold or hot. 

Azazel glanced around him. "Fifteen miles north of Tyumen, in Siberia, on some farmland. I spent a lot of time here, once." He didn't explain why he'd spent the time outside of the city or what he'd spent the time doing, and no one questioned it. It was enough that he'd managed to get everyone out in one piece. 

"As for what happened, it must have been an avalanche," Chandler added quietly. "Sometimes, with the added snowfall during the winter season, or during the early spring thaw, the snow's equilibrium on the mountain gets unbalanced, causing it to rush down the mountainside. Ithaca was close enough to the surface that the added weight of the snow and rock and whatever else gets picked up might cause parts of the cave system to collapse." 

Raven's mouth tightened at Chandler's information. "Then we can't go right back Ithaca. Even if there isn't much structural damage right now, we're going to have to wait until everything settles down to make sure that Ithaca can withstand the additional snow and rock. We need to find someplace to hole up for at least a day, especially with none of us prepared for staying out in this weather." She bit her lip. "Westchester still isn't safe, of course, and though Erik and I were talking about other places to go, but we haven't thoroughly vetted any of them," Raven finished towards Azazel, propping her hand on a hip, then got a considering light in her eye, "Though—" 

Hank took that moment to shove a shirt at her, cutting off whatever Raven was about to say. "For you," he instructed, sounding abashed. She hadn't even noticed him stripping out of it. In fact, she had no idea _how_ he'd stripped out of it, given that Erik's body was still cradled in Hank's strong arms. Even with his shirt off, however, Hank himself seemed unconcerned with the chill that was whipping through the air. The fur really was insulated, it seemed. He cleared his throat a little, gesturing down at Raven's body with his shirt while solemnly gazing up at the sky. 

Raven stared at him, utterly perplexed for a long moment. What the hell was a single shirt going to do against the freezing wind, especially when it wasn't even particularly thick? "Uh," she said, "okay?" She didn't take the shirt, but Hank's hand remained in front of her. It was sweet, in a ridiculously chivalrous and completely unnecessary way, of course. He had to know that she wasn't affected by temperature as much as the others. Of all of them, Charles was the most likely to be affected by the cold, something that Hank was surely aware of, so why—oh. 

Raven was naked. 

In the midst of all the confusion, she'd completely lost hold of the illusion of clothing that she'd been maintaining that day. She was standing barefoot in the dusting of snow without a stitch on her body. Raven looked around, and everyone, even Wright and Azazel and Sean were all very carefully making sure to keep their eyes trained either on her face or elsewhere entirely. She flushed, not out of any real embarrassment over her own bared skin but because it was hard not to, when everyone else was staring at her as though she'd just kicked a puppy or slapped an innocent child or done something equally unforgiveable. 

Raven knocked Hank's hand away in a flare of temper. She was supposed to be capable of leading these people that she'd largely come to consider her friends and family but they were trying to hide her skin and scales from the world. She took a step back, pained. "I don't need clothing!" she snarled. "I'm fine the way I am now!" 

"You are," Sean promised, taking the shirt from Hank and offering it to Raven even as he shifted back and forth to keep himself from getting cold. "But, uh, it's just, well...you should get dressed. Since," he coughed. "Your. Um," he hesitated, and then whispered in a hushed voiced, "Your lady parts are showing." 

The cagey terminology took Raven aback for a moment before she turned positively incandescent with fury. " _Lady parts?_ " she nearly screeched with outrage. "You mean my _breasts_ and _hips_ and _lack of penis_?" 

Sean looked flummoxed by her accusation, turning positively scarlet, yanking the shirt back before Raven decided to rip it on principle. "You're naked!" he protested. 

"Yes," Raven growled. "As a matter of fact, yes, I am. I am naked. What are you going to do about it?" She sneered at Sean for good measure. Sean let out a little scream that had everyone wincing in concert; Sean's face only grew redder from the embarrassment and his mouth opened and closed a few times. 

"I—you—I just, I mean—can't—but, but," he stammered out, backing away from Raven and nearly running into Alex in the process. Alex kept him from tripping over his own feet and landing on the ground, but only barely. "But I don't want to have to marry you!" Sean finally wailed. 

Silence fell. 

Everyone looked from Sean to Raven. 

Everyone looked from Raven to Sean. 

"What does me being naked have to do with us marrying?" Raven inquired in a dangerously pleasant voice. 

Sean stared at his bare toes for a moment before blurting out in one long breath, "If you're naked and I see you naked then that means I see you and your stuff and that means it's going to be in my head and if it's in my head and I can't stop thinking about it then Charles is going to see it and if Charles knows that I saw you naked then he's going to think I defiled your honor and because he's your brother he's going to make me do the right thing and marry you and _I'm sorry Raven I really like you but I don't want to marry you!_ " Sean was gasping for breath by the end of it. 

Once Raven had parsed what Sean said, she gaped for a moment. "Charles," she finally began through gritted teeth, "has no right to demand that I marry anyone, regardless of the state of undress that they saw me in. Charles has no right to tell me what I should or should not be wearing. Charles has—" she choked the words back. She had no interest in airing her personal issues to everyone. She did relent and say in a low voice, "Charles lost any right to tell me what to do when he couldn't look me in the eye like this." She gestured down at herself and hated the way her voice when thin and tremulous. 

They all stared at her for a moment. "What...naked?" Hank finally suggested warily. 

Raven couldn't keep herself from stamping a foot. "No!" she cried, "Blue! Scaly! Red hair! Me!" 

Hank, Alex and Sean all exchanged a glance. "Raven?" Alex began and then stopped. After a moment of wordless conversation between his friends, Alex cleared his throat and stepped forward without quailing beneath Raven's stern gaze. "No offense, but I doubt Charles was as worried about the blue skin as the fact that there was, uh, so much skin in the first place." 

"What are you talking about?" Raven demanded, but there was a note of confusion in her voice now. 

Alex winced and then took a deep breath. "What would you do if I was naked right now?" 

Raven couldn't stop her reflexive, "Ugh!" When Alex grinned and let out a little laugh, she smacked him across the arm. "That's disgusting; I don't need to see all your bits! It'd be like seeing a brother—" she suddenly cut herself off. Alex's point had been made, and she bowed her head, a wry smile crossing her face. 

"Like seeing a brother naked," Alex finished for her. His own brief smile lit up his face. "Yeah, we know." 

Hank grabbed the shirt from Sean and offered it to Raven once more. "Not that we don't appreciate you and everything you do for us, but you're more like a sister than anything else to us. So, here. Before Charles finds out that we saw you and decides to wipe our minds of the event in question." Hank's smile had fangs in it, but it was still Hank at its core, shy and timid but bright. 

Raven's eyes softened and she grabbed the shirt from his hands and tugged it over her head. It bared most of her shoulder and reached down to about mid-thigh, but the most important parts were covered. Everyone let out a little sigh of relief. "Oh, thank God." Sean murmured. "I was sure that Charles was going to wake up any moment and force us to ask for your hand in marriage." 

"He'd never wipe your mind. He'd find that a gross misuse of his powers. Probably," Raven added as an afterthought, propping her hands on her hips. "Sean's right. He'd be far more likely to demand a shotgun wedding, even if I wasn't pregnant." 

"Charles wouldn't need a shotgun to make us marry you," Sean mused. "He could just make us want to marry you with mind voodoo. The Prof is pretty badass." There was a general consensus when Alex and Hank—and after a beat, Azazel as well—nodded their agreement; the only time they'd seen Charles display any sort of real temper was on the beach towards Erik, but even that single instance was enough to label him as eternal badass for the foreseeable future. 

Raven rolled her eyes. "Alright, I'm officially ending the discussion of any potential weddings that I am the bride in, regardless of Charles' influence." It was easy to give the words an undercurrent of laughter because for the first time in months, or perhaps even _years_ , she actually felt like she was lighter. She was still angry at Charles, angry for the way he'd handled things, angry at the fact that he talked at her instead of with her, angry for his pig-headedness and ignorance. 

It was entirely possible they were wrong, of course, entirely possible that Charles really found her natural form as repulsive as she had originally thought. He'd gazed at her so differently as a child, with wonder and joy and simple curiosity over her gifts. It wasn't until they'd gotten older that he'd become obsessed with making sure that she kept her disguise up at all times even within her own room. He barely liked it when she'd let the mask fall within the privacy of their Oxford apartment, where at least there wasn't the chance of a maid or Kurt or Cain coming in when they least expected it. She'd assumed that he'd grown to find the way she really looked to be ugly with the way he seemed so purposefully oblivious to the way she'd wanted him. 

She tugged on the bottom of her shirt, looking down at her blue toes against the white snow. When she looked up, though, Alex caught her gaze and winked before he affected the frown that was appearing less and less often these days. Azazel's tail curled around her wrist briefly before he pulled it away. Sean, abashed, bumped companionably against Raven's arm before dancing away, looking cold. Wright and Cooper smiled gently at her while Chandler just tilted his head and blinked a few times blankly; Wright and Cooper had never known her false skin and Chandler always seemed a little vague on why Raven's body might be a case for concern. Still, it was the thought that counted. Hank was the last one to move, shifting Erik so that he was cradled in one arm. Haltingly, and without quite meeting her eyes, he whispered, "Blue is a good color on you." 

Raven grinned broadly. 

If nothing else, however, Raven was able to look at the people around her for the first time knowing that they didn't care about the bright blue of her skin or the unnatural gold shade of her eyes. They gave their support and friendship freely to her, and that made it easy to straighten her back. 

"No one," Erik groaned a second later, "is marrying anyone today." 

"Awake now, are you?" Raven questioned archly. "It's about time." 

Erik wiped at his face, dabbing a little at the blood that stained his upper lip. Licking it away from his fingers, Erik treated them all to a bloody smile. "Put me down, Hank, and let's get going." 

~*~ 

Erik stoked the fire, glad that the wood that he'd stockpiled the better part of three years ago was still in good shape. It was heating up the room nicely and everyone was starting to breathe easier now that they weren't in danger in freezing any time soon. Sean, Wright, Chandler and MacTaggert, the ones who had been the least prepared for the invasive cold when they'd been snatched away by Azazel, were all huddled in front of the flames, warming their fingers and toes in particular. They hadn't been out in the snow for more than ten minutes before Erik had woken up and organized the group, but even those ten minutes without proper protection threatened to take their toll. 

He stood then, heading into the tiny back room that had served as his bedroom when he'd last spent any real time here. He hadn't dared to risk a fire at the time, but the snowy Alps required some sort of protection. He'd stocked up on blankets as a result, something that he was grateful for now as it gave everyone at least something to sleep under. It would be far from the most comfortable night that they'd spent resting, but Erik had agreed with Raven's assessment of Chandler's words that they shouldn't risk heading back to Ithaca until they were completely sure that they wouldn't find themselves underneath a caving ceiling. 

He brought out the stack of blankets, distributing them to those who were worst off first—even, as he realized later, MacTaggert. He wasn't paying much attention, absently casting an eye over those huddling around the warmth. His real focus was on the other room, which was technically the kitchen but was the only place with enough power sources to actually keep all of the machinery that Charles needed functioning. With Wright suffering from cold, they'd thought it best to leave Charles in the hands of Cooper, with Hank at hand to make sure that she had everything she required. That left only Chandler, Azazel and Raven at loose ends, following his every movement in the hope that they would be able to do something useful. 

He waved them off, however, poking his head into where Charles was planted in the midst of various shelves and tables and chairs and pans, a strange juxtaposition of medical paraphernalia and kitchen equipment. He had perfect timing; as he checked in on them, Cooper finished the last of her work and stepped back, brushing her hands against her clothing and stepping back with satisfaction. Catching sight of Erik, she gave a quick smile. "He's all settled. Azazel managed to get everything out that we needed the first time he grabbed us. As long as we didn't lose all of our medicine in the avalanche, we should be fine." 

"That's good," Erik said, and the words didn't quite convey all the relief he felt flooding his system. Once he'd been awake enough to worry about it, he'd been terrified that the haste with which Azazel had teleported might have ended up with something important being left behind. 

Cooper stripped off her gloves and threw them into the trash, and Erik back up just enough to let her and Hank through before following them to sit with everyone else in front of the fire. He'd also worried briefly about Charles suffering from the cold, but with so many people and the fire roaring in the fireplace, the heat was quickly filling the small cottage. If he wasn't careful, the heat would pass comfortable and end up firmly in the stifling category. 

He kept himself a little apart from the others as Hank and Cooper settled in with the rest, several quiet conversations breaking out. Erik listened to the dull murmur of voices without adding anything, weariness tugging at his bones all at once as the adrenaline faded away. He'd rinsed his face from the worst of the blood and washed his mouth out with some snow to get rid of the copper tang, but his entire body still felt strained and sore from attempting to keep Ithaca in one piece. He hoped that he was mostly successful; it would be much easier to support the stone against the new forces being placed upon it than to completely rebuild everything from scratch. 

The thought of Ithaca had Erik frowning as he a number of concerns caught hold of his attention—of the state Ithaca might be in, of where they should go from here, even of the fact that he'd gotten used to the confining nature of what had only been intended to be an intermediate location. It was the last that cut the most. He'd become accustomed to the safety of Ithaca just as the others had, and his notoriety within the government resulting in Erik allowing himself to be turned into little more than a glorified administrator rather than the leader of the mutant race he'd always intended to be. 

Erik sighed, waving off the concerned look Raven sent his way at the noise. Only when she returned to her conversation with Alex and Sean did he let his thoughts return to the subject at hand as he hid a yawn behind his hand. It hurt, what he'd allowed himself to be reduced to. Fear had been his constant companion for the eighteen years he'd gone after Schmidt, but it had been almost completely buried beneath the hatred and anger. Now it was always looking over his shoulder. He was waiting for the government to find them, waiting for another Schmidt to rise, waiting for anything that would shatter the dangerous equilibrium they'd scraped together. Though the fears were valid, the fact that he'd permitted them to influence his actions so thoroughly disgusted him and made him feel like a child. Erik yawned again, stretching out on the floor. The bed had been all but taken apart by rats, so the floor was the only option they all had. 

Despite the rancor of the admission, Erik could feel his lids getting heavier as he swallowed down another yawn. It was difficult to hold onto his fury and disappointment when he'd overextended himself mere hours ago and wanted nothing more than to sleep for the next three days straight. He didn't have a pillow, and had kept only the most ragged of the blankets for himself, but neither of those things stopped him from dropping off somewhere between his plans to excavate anything that had gotten buried in the destruction and his plans of what they would do next. It seemed like a sign, that they had been driven out of Ithaca and into the world at large again. 

Erik slept peacefully, head pillowed awkwardly on his arms with his back against the wall. When he woke up, stiff-necked and cramped, with Raven pressing herself against one side, arm thrown over his waist and Azazel at his feet, tail wrapped around one of Erik's ankles and everyone else looking like nothing so much as a basket of sleeping puppies, all limbs and snoring and warmth, pressing close together without a trace of discomfort. He was the first to awaken, from the looks of things. That was good. That would allow him time to consider what he'd spent time musing on the night before. 

The thoughts that had surfaced late the previous night came back with a vengeance. They'd spent so long living in Ithaca, doing nothing more than tiny missions and hiding themselves away from the world at large. He'd done it to try and protect his fellow mutants, to protect Charles from the worst of the world had to offer, but that time was at its end. Erik didn't believe in omens, didn't believe in good or bad luck; any fortune that was made was made by one's own self. However, having the safety of Ithaca threatened, the one place they'd started to believe was impenetrable, was a reminder to Erik that there was no such thing as real safety. He'd thought his family's home safe once, too. There would be no safety until mutants everywhere could walk free and they couldn't ensure that from behind Ithaca's walls. 

Erik had spent too much time hiding himself away—too much time allowing all of them to hide themselves away. 

It was time to strike hard and strike fast, time to start taking the fight from the covert to the overt, starting with the government. 

Erik knew just the message to send.


	14. The Second Shoe

_"I'm looking for hope.“_

_It seemed, sometimes, that years and years had passed in an eye blink. The same argument fought a hundred thousand times over in a hundred thousand different ways in forty years. Forty long years of two sides trying to fight for what they saw as the greater good. Forty years of being Professor X, of guiding the X Men, of keeping his heart under wraps because it was safer this way._

_Yet he could never stop questing for hope._

_These days, hope was more about watching Kitty ask about the physics of her mutations, of whether she was somehow bypassing the electromagnetic forces that they'd discussed in class. It was about a long afternoon in the sunshine with the first students he'd ever taken under his wings at his side. It was about every time he saw someone completely normal thanking one of his X Men for saving their lives. It was about the kindness he'd seen so many people capable of, even after terrible things had been done._

_Magneto didn't see that, however. He'd never seen that, not since anger on that beach had taken up root and driven him to spend more than half a century turning him into a man who would take the life of an innocent, all in the name of, “the greater good.“_

_Charles was never as afraid of the greater good as when Magneto staked his claim on it._

_Magneto's voice was as smooth and charismatic as ever. Charles remembered that voice from the old days, the early days, when it rang with something other than smooth, pleasant confidence. He remembered when that voice held heartbreak and sweetness and Charles had been convinced that their future would be all the brighter for it being intertwined. “I will bring you hope, old friend. And I ask only one thing in return. Don't get in my way.“_

_He wanted to say that the only thing that Magneto was bringing was more war and savagery and death as the number of wrongs each side did the other mounted until there was no untangling them and no ability to create a future for anything but bones. Charles didn't even open his mouth, though. Magneto had never listened to things that he didn't want to hear, such as inconvenient truths. The fact that this was just another one of those inconvenient truths turned Charles' silver-tongue to one of lead._

_He let Magneto turn his back on him and walk away._

_Magneto had once said that he would wait for Charles to join his side and wouldn't even say, “I told you so.“_

_Charles had never told him that he would wait for the same thing._

_“We are the future Charles, not them. They no longer matter.“_

~*~ 

Langley, Virginia was a place that Erik had known all too well that he would eventually return to. It was the headquarters of the CIA, and he'd known from the beginning that there were things held in the main facility that they wouldn't want disappearing elsewhere; it was, after all, the place from which he'd stolen the file on Schmidt, the CIA's network assembling in a matter of months what had taken Erik years. There was sensitive, vital information held in the main building of the CIA, and Erik knew it. He hadn't trusted the CIA then, of course, but had been willing enough to use the CIA the same way the government was planning on using him as long as he was around such information. 

Charles had told him he was being ridiculous, and that while of course not everyone was accepting, the vast majority of the men and women they'd come in contact with were at least neutral in their stance on mutants. They'd argued about that, and a great number of other things, during the weeks they'd spent traveling across the United States, but for Erik, it all came back to this building. It had all started here, all the things that really mattered; Charles had told him of his vision for the mutant race here, had worked on Cerebro with Erik and Hank for long hours, had spoken with such joy of the mutants he hoped to bring out of hiding. 

Charles had saved his life off the coast of Florida, but he'd brought new purpose to Erik's life in the CIA facility—to help the mutant race rise from the ashes of the human race and become great. 

Erik gazed down at the CIA facility from his hiding spot, blowing on the fingers of one to stave off the cold even as he watched vehicles moved past the gate through the binoculars through the other. These government types were consistent, with McCone and Stryker gone by five on the dot and the youngest agents taking their leave by seven by the latest. Erik studied the guard rotation at the gate for a moment, but he was far more concerned as to when people were leaving and coming back rather than when the guards changed. After all, Azazel had assured him that once they got close enough, he would be able to take them directly into the facility. While Azazel needed a working knowledge of an area to transport from long distances, he didn't have a problem making jumps within line of sight or into rooms that had a close proximity even if he couldn't, technically, see it. With MacTaggert's drawing of the facility and Erik's own sharp memory, it wouldn't be the work of more than an hour or two in order to find all of the necessary files on Cerebro before Erik and Alex loosed their power on the facility at large and brought it down around everyone's ears. 

Silently, he rose to his feet and stalked away after waiting another hour to ensure that no one remained, doing his best to prevent drawing attention to himself as he trudged back to the old parking garage a few blocks away where Azazel awaited him on one of the upper levels. 

There was a pair of men standing outside the main entrance of the garage, smoking casually. Erik stood stock still, out of sight in nearby bushes as he edged towards one of the open air sides of the building, where he'd be able to get past the metal bars intended to keep people from simply climbing in. Not that they'd stop Erik. "—gone around the bend," one of them muttered as he stubbed out the cigarette. "He's kept everyone on alert for days, and nothing's happened. He's obsessed." He sounded grouchy. "I don't know what he thinks is going to happen." 

The other man snorted as Erik crept forward, sliding inside and landing in a crouch mere feet away from the men. "Tell me about it. I saw Nelson getting reamed out by Stryker for pointing out the flaws in his plan. You know these higher ups, though, they never want to hear what they're doing wrong until things go wrong, and then it's one of us lowly people on the chopping block." He took one last drag of his cigarette and stubbed it out. "Let's go back to the car. I'm freezing." 

They stalked off, both turning up their collars to the cold as they stepped out of the protection of the doorway and walked to a nearby car. Erik watched as they got in, talking a little more as the car warmed up before they drove off. Erik waited another minute or two, but the street was quiet and dark. He stood, making his way to the upper levels. Azazel was hidden in some shadows, out of sight of the majority of the garage and Erik held a finger to his lips. What he'd overheard needed consideration, and voices carried easily in the cement and asphalt garage. Azazel held out his hand and Erik took it. 

When they reappeared, they were standing in Moira MacTaggert's apartment. 

To the woman in question, at least, it was probably completely unrecognizable as being her own. They'd long since taken away all of her personal belongings, probably to check them out for any ties to the USSR or any other known terrorist organizations, mutants included. Enough time had passed that even the places where the furniture had rested looked no different from the rest of the carpet. However, though MacTaggert's belongings were gone, there weren't any new occupants in the space. The knowledge still made Erik's skin crawl; it was a nice apartment within twenty minutes of the facility, and it should have been snapped up as soon as possible. The only reason they'd even stopped by in the first place at little over a week ago when they'd first decided to risk the danger of entering the CIA, where they were all well-known, was in the vague hopes that MacTaggert would be able to gain them access to the records that she'd hidden in her apartment. They'd been left behind, hidden in a floor safe when she'd gone off to Westchester, and amongst the papers were partial copies of the Cerebro data. If the CIA hadn't already found them, Erik wasn't going to leave anything behind for them to use. Better safe than sorry. 

It had been a long shot, of course, since it wasn't likely that the CIA had missed the safe in their searches of MacTaggert's apartment, but it had been worth checking out if they were planning to invade the main CIA facility anyways. They'd discovered within moments of scoping out the apartment that it no longer had any occupants and Azazel had been able to take them directly inside the apartment from the alley across the street to confirm their findings. 

Once inside, they'd fanned out and thoroughly investigated the cleaned apartment. It quickly became clear why the CIA hadn't allowed it to be rented out once more. They had probably hoped to get a tip off if any of the mutants or their missing agent showed up; Erik had sensed a handful of listening devices scattered around and in the building proper, their unique structure familiar enough from his own experience with them, even amongst the modern appliances and technology, all of which had an increasing reliance on metal circuitry. The listening devices were old, covered in dust that had months to gather, clearly either unattended or so poorly attended as to be worthless. Still, Erik had made it a point to crush the ones in the apartment proper and had alerted the others to those that were spread throughout the rest of the building. They were hardly planning on using the hallways at any time, but a warning would harm no one. 

It was shoddy work, really; Erik had expected destroying the listening devices would bring the agents that should have been keeping an ear on things directly over and they'd been prepared for it. However, he'd seen neither hide nor hair of anyone throughout the entire week. It was clear that three broken audio surveillance bugs within the apartment hadn't ranked high enough on the list of issues to have merited any real concern. Erik was not one to mourn another's folly, however, and it somehow felt that much more fitting that he plan the demise of the CIA in the home of one of its agents, for all she was no longer a part of the government. Besides, strangers from out of town staying in a motel around the time someone destroys the CIA? Erik may as well light a sign saying who was responsible. Besides, he couldn't afford someone catching a glimpse of Hank and alerting the authorities. 

At the same time, however, something about the entire situation had felt strange to him, felt strange to him even now. It was true they hadn't spent altogether that much time in the main CIA building, but from their reaction on the beach, most of the government, American and Soviet alike, viewed mutants as threats. If there was any sign that they had returned, agents should have come in, guns blazing, for all the good it would do them. 

With those thought still filling his mind, he the sensation of Azazel's teleportation didn't have the same effect on his senses as usual; for once he didn't even flinch when he appeared in the apartment. Their sudden arrival did cause everyone else to react, however. Raven looked up, her skin rippling nervously in the same way someone else might tap their nails against a flat surface, drumming random rhythms. Alex was sitting right next to her, running his fingers lightly over the new control plate that Hank had made to aid his control. Sean was wandering around the room, too jittery to sit still, and he started badly when Erik and Azazel appeared. 

Erik raised a hand for silence, thinking for a moment, putting out all other thoughts for the moment and focusing on what needed to be done. The implications of what he'd overheard was painfully clear. His instinct was to call off the mission, yet at the same time, they'd allowed the Cerebro data to remain in government hands for too long, unable to risk a direct assault without putting everyone in danger. Who knew how many mutants they'd tried to take advantage of while Erik and the others had been preoccupied with trying to keep themselves in one piece? 

"Stryker must at least suspect we're here," he informed them after repeating what he'd overheard. He saw the stress on their faces and nodded grimly. "Things just became that much more dangerous. It doesn't matter how or why, only that they do know." Despite his words, Erik was desperate to know who had slipped up and when, that Stryker could have possible figured out what they were up to. "However, they've got no idea as to when we plan to strike from the sounds of things. Those Cerebro documents are important, but neither can we afford to lose any of you." He gazed at each of them in turn, meaning his words. They were fitting together now, figuring out how they needed to work together, and there were so few people Erik didn't want to lose a single one. 

"If he doesn't know we're coming, though, it's not as though we're going to have to try and bypass security. Azazel will take us right in, without anyone else being the wiser," Alex pointed out after several seconds of heavy silence. "If we go in and get out fast enough, we shouldn't have a problem." 

"And Moira knows where the info is," Sean added. 

"I only know where they last kept it," MacTaggert corrected swiftly. "It's entirely possible they've moved it since then. In fact, if they think we're coming, it's more than likely." 

"But do they know that we can go right in?" Alex questioned. "I mean, they may be using it as bait. Let us get in past the guards, find Cerebro data, and hit us on our way out. There's no way to know for sure what they know without several weeks of recon at the least, and even then there's no guarantee they're not just screwing with us." Erik nodded; Alex's growing experience on how to conduct proper reconnaissance was clearly serving him well. 

"So the question becomes, 'Do we risk it?'" Raven stated. "Is taking what the government knows about these mutants' locations worth it?" 

The words sat heavy in the air; no one knew quite how to answer it. 

"We need to try," MacTaggert announced darkly and with a blunt finality. Erik looked at her, surprised. "The longer that we put this off, the more precautions they'll be able to put in our way. We might be walking blind as to what kind of defenses they have, but I doubt they'll have enough of them. You've seen what survived the attack on Agent Hudson's facility when Shaw came. The Cerebro data was copied, of course, and all of the information on Shaw himself and his ties with the Soviet Union, most of which were send to other departments, but I don't believe anyone has the complete picture as to your abilities. They'll know the basics, but they won't understand how to stop you, and they definitely don't know what you learned to do at Westchester and since." 

"Then we have to try," Raven declared immediately. "We just need to do it as fast as we can." 

"I don't know..." Sean mumbled, looking distinctly unnerved. "I feel like this is a really bad plan." 

"But what other choice do we have?" Alex fisted his hands on his hips. "They're getting ready for us, and they're only going to get more ready." 

"Stay near me," Azazel suggested. "We will disappear before they know we have arrived." Despite the serene words, the set of his mouth belied his own anxiety with the situation. 

Slowly, however, and then with more confidence, they agreed it was the only viable solution. 

Erik looked around, but their faces were set. Despite the bad feeling he had about all of this, what MacTaggert had said was true. The longer they put this off, the better the CIA would be able to defend against the mutants, and they'd already been gone for more than three months. "Alright, we'll stick to the plan," he agreed reluctantly. He started stripping out of his gloves, scarf and coat finally, "But we're not done discussing it. Before we continue, what did Hank have to say?" 

Raven straightened, reporting as a soldier to their commander, "They've managed to get a temporary repair on the corridor, kitchen and my room so at least they're not exposed to the open air, but Hank is still trying to get the generators that were broken up and running. They've got enough power to keep Hank and Chandler's workshop running and to keep Charles safe, but we're going to need to do some serious work before we can all live there together again." 

Erik nodded. "Azazel?" The teleporter didn't even ask what Erik wanted him to do; he disappeared, off to Ithaca to bring back the only person in the face of the planet currently capable who knew the Cerebro data inside and out. "Do you have the map finished?" he asked coolly of MacTaggert. 

Her face went too smooth as she tried to hide the irritation in her gaze. "Of course," she said only a little crisply. Erik expected no less from the CIA agent. She had been a reluctant companion in this endeavor at best, but what Erik had told her before they'd started this mission had left its mark: "You saw it, how they used and abused us on the beach. Mutant life doesn't create bad press, doesn't cost them anything to end, and can you really imagine that people aren't experimenting on our kind, now that we've started to reveal ourselves? Being super strong, being super quick, super intelligent or stealthy is all well and good when you're under the government's thumb, or when it was the government who made you that way. You probably know the rumors about Captain America, for instance, and the work your Russian friends are still doing in attempting to make a super soldier better than I do. Yet heaven forbid that you be made that way out of a strange quirk of fate." Erik had widened his mouth in something that was only a rough approximation of a smile. "For those who chose their gifts in other ways, ways that don't allow your every move to be dictated by a government who sees you as a weapon, they're not so kind." 

He'd pushed a sheaf of paper towards her. "Make us a map of your facility, Agent MacTaggert. Help us find Cerebro's data, so that we can offer out fellow mutants a true choice, a real choice." His mouth thinned. "I will give them the same choice I did of Angel and Riptide and every other mutant in Schmidt's facility, to abandon their brothers and sisters in order to live a lie or join us in our quest for true mutant freedom." 

MacTaggert hadn't touched the paper. "I hope you're not going to phrase it quite like that," she drawled, but Erik had been able to see her pulse fluttering in her neck. "I've seen your version of compromise before, if you remember." She had touched her collar and her eyes had gone distant and cold. Erik recognized it, and his heart stuttered for a moment because he'd seen much the same look in his own gaze once or twice in the mirror, thinking over what Schmidt had done to him. 

Erik had swallowed, opening his mouth to demand MacTaggert listen to him, but what came out was, "So come with us. Make sure we aren't taking anything except what we actually need." He'd thought for a moment about whether he should take the words back, but MacTaggert didn't have to know that he and Alex were planning on destroying the facility until long after it would be done. MacTaggert had blinked at him, surprised and as startled about the offer as Erik himself way. However, for the first time, she had begun to look at him with something approaching the neutral wariness that was once her usual reaction to him. 

"You...want me to come with you?" she'd repeated, raising a brow. Erik had made an annoyed little sound, but nodded. "Alright," she had said suddenly. "Alright." The agreement had shocked MacTaggert as much as Erik, of that he was sure, but the entire conversation hadn't gone the way he was expecting regardless, so he supposed that was only fair. 

Erik watched now as MacTaggert handed over the map. He matched it with the parts of the facility he'd seen while debriefing, and also the parts he'd been able to investigate under the guise of various bathroom trips. He was sure that Charles had known what he'd been doing, but he hadn't said a word about it. 

There was a muted crack behind him, and the unmistakable presence of Hank filled up the room accompanied by the sulphurous smell of Azazel's transport. "Have you gone over the plans yet?" Hank rumbled. Everyone stepped aside slightly so that Hank and Azazel had a clear view of the maps. They ringed the table, everyone crowding in close so that they could see the plans clearly. Erik took a moment to catch Hank up on what had happened. With everyone else in favor of continuing as planned, Hank couldn't help but agree, but the same discomfort was in his expression as it was in Sean, Azazel and Erik's own. 

Nevertheless, the die had been cast. 

They all turned to the map, then, the tension in the air racketing up as they knowledge that they were doing this, they were actually going through with it, sunk in. Hank had gone over MacTaggert's drawings with his own knowledge of the CIA headquarters from his own visits; though he had been primarily stationed at Agent Hudson's facility, he'd been to the main facility at least half a dozen times and his memory was very good. He was able to verify the areas within the facility that he'd been to and had done his best to make sure that everything was to scale. Furthermore, Erik had forced everyone to memorize the building plan, so he knew that his entire team knew the area as well as they possibly could. However, extra planning never hurt. 

"Assuming that things haven't been moved since I was last there, and it's very possible that they have, we should be able to get them and get out fast," MacTaggert instructed. The reminder of the trap that probably awaited them had all of them shifting nervously. "The files are on the lowest level, here, probably in one of these two rooms. Those are the active rooms, with cases that they're concerned about right now. When I was last in here, they were storing the mutant files in the shelves closest to the door. I'll be able to point them out when we get there." She traced a finger along the map. "Azazel, this is the room that you should take us to during that first jump. It's a bathroom on the first floor, and since it's the women's room, we're unlikely to run into anyone on this first jump. You'll be able to see the window from the first teleportation point, it's the ninth window from the left. From there, it's more or less just a matter of teleporting down to the files if we're using Azazel. I've worked late once or twice in the file room, so I know that the guards don't go in, but we're going to have to keep out of sight of the doorway and keep absolutely silent, understand?" Erik could almost see MacTaggert visibly trying to think of everything else she should say. 

"Don't touch anything if you can help it. Hank's brought us gloves," at her nod, Hank started distributing the plain laboratory gloves, "so we won't leave prints, but even so it's better to err on the side of caution. They'll figure out the files are missing soon enough, but the fewer traces we can leave to confirm it's actually us, the better. The last thing we want is identifying fingerprints, for instance, that they'll be able to use to prove we were actually there. Don't drop or steal additional files besides those that we actually need. The fewer things that we take, the longer it ought to take for them to notice." 

"Make sure that everyone sticks together," Erik stressed a moment later. "It's the most important thing, even beyond the files. We can try to get the Cerebro documents again, but if we get separated, there's a risk of us getting captured. That's the last thing we want, as they probably already have measures against us. If we do get separated, for some reason, don't waste your time trying to track everyone else down. Get out as fast as you possibly can and make your way to location alpha. If for some reason you can't, try and get a message to that box in Doylestown that I have set up telling me where you are." He met everyone's eyes one after the other, his own steely gray. "Do not risk yourselves for this mission, whatever you do. Don't stray any further than you have to, and everyone needs to go with a partner. Raven and Hank, Alex and Azazel, Sean and MacTaggert with me, unless I say otherwise. Am I clear?" 

"Yes," everyone chorused one after another, but that didn't make the tightness in Erik's shoulders dissipate. 

It was easy to risk his own life; he'd been doing that for years in an effort to find and kill Schmidt. All Erik could see each time he gazed at the others were the ghost bruises, cuts, and injuries that they'd sustained not only on the beach but on almost every mission since then in order to accomplish their goals. Then Raven stood and stretched, skin mostly bare as her sinuous muscles shifted and she started running through seemings of all of them, from Erik to Alex to MacTaggert and back to her own skin. Hank bared dangerous fangs as he checked his own suit out and then checked the maps yet again for their accuracy. Azazel armed himself with a set of wickedly curved blades that Erik remember vaguely from the younger mutant's descriptions of when he'd attacked Agent Hudson's facility, the man Alex, Sean and Raven had taken to affectionately calling, "The Man in the Black Suit" before his untimely death. As for Alex and Sean, they were already suited up in modified versions of their specialized uniforms and had Hank come over and do his own set of checks. Even MacTaggert was suited up in a pair of jeans, a long-sleeved shirt and a bright yellow Kevlar vest that Hank had dyed black on the grounds that Erik was sure it could be seen from space; she'd armed herself with a .357 magnum that she'd cleaned and oiled before putting in a new cartridge before she'd pulled back her hair into a tight ponytail. 

Erik himself was as armed as he was going to be, having layered metal into his clothing over all of his vital points. Not only would it stop almost any sort of firearm in a second's notice if for some reason Erik couldn't get a handle on the bullet before then, but he could use it as a weapon in its own right of he couldn't find anything useable in his surroundings. He stared around the small apartment, looking at the bare walls and floor, the tiny signs of life that they had left in MacTaggert's apartment. 

Something suddenly niggled at the back of his mind, and he took one last check around the apartment, looking for any device that he might have missed. He checked as much with his other senses as he did with his powers, going so far as to tap the walls around him in case they'd hidden it behind the wallpaper that was an absolute offense to everything in him. He found nothing besides the bugs that he'd crushed earlier, but there was so _much_ metal around him. Even the coiled wired of the electric system could be felt against his senses; so much of the world these days was based on metal. Erik took a deep breath. He wasn't going to borrow trouble, but he made sure to come back to the main room and said in a low voice, "Be careful." 

"What is it, Erik?" Raven demanded, sitting up. "What's wrong?" 

Erik held up a hand. He closed his eyes, trying to focus himself. Was he missing anything? Listening devices, photography, even people armed with guns. None of it. There was something strange, but it wasn't anything that he recognized in the wiring in the building. He searched out the spot of strangeness in MacTaggert's apartment. A flat piece of metal with a pattern of dots on it that had been soldered to accompanying pieces of metal was flush against the ceiling, not unlike a thousand other such devices in the building, though the construction might have been slightly different. It sat together along with some wiring near a bundle of other cables, but he couldn't tell what they were for. Erik felt it out with his powers and though it felt vaguely like the listening devices he'd found elsewhere, it wasn't the same. It felt more like a power box than anything else. 

He left it alone for now, but he opened his eyes slowly. It wasn't paranoia if people were really out to kill you. "Be careful," he warned for a second time. "Just be careful tonight." He reached out with his power and completely crushed the device, as he had the audio devices. Extra caution never hurt, especially since they were about to leave anyways. 

"Let's go." Raven stood up then. Stars had started appearing over the city, and hopefully the cover of darkness would hide their movements. "Sooner before later. Let's get this done." Erik felt vaguely guilty that his words had clearly sent jitters running not only through Raven but also through the other mutants, but he would prefer if they were wary than over confident. With the CIA on hand, potentially ready to spring a trap at any moment, Erik wasn't going to let them be complacent. 

"Да," Azazel agreed. "We need to leave, and do it now." He sheathed his weapons at his hips and held out his hands, inviting everyone to join him. They grasped his hands, Erik and Sean on his left with everyone else on his right. Erik felt adrenaline thrumming through his veins, readiness for the mission leaving every one of his senses heightened even as his muscles tensed in anticipation. 

They looked at each other one last time, taking in a deep breath. Erik glanced at the ceiling one last time, and then he looked up past the ceiling and tried to remember the feel of the stars on his skin. He spent a precious moment to run through a prayer for safe journey, the _Tefilat HaDerech_ , and tried not to remember the fact that the last time he'd actually spoken the words himself was when the Nazi army had forced his family from their home for the first time. 

Erik inclined his head to Azazel, and they all disappeared. 

Azazel made the necessary series of jumps fast, faster than Erik had thought would be possible. The man needed less than a second to orient himself and figure out how to jump to the next spot. It shouldn't have been that surprising, of course, considering he regularly fought using his powers as a weapon of its own, but that didn't stop Erik from marveling at the speed. 

First the field a mile outside of the facility proper, then the bathroom, and then directly down to the Cerebro data. They were all old hands at Azazel's brand of transportation, and they were moving as soon as they were steady. The air nearly trembled with the force of the silent, "Get in, get out," that everyone was thinking. MacTaggert led the way, going directly to a series of five or six boxes, haphazardly stacked files and folders. She took the files and began flipping through them with an eye out for anything relevant, while the others started in on the boxes. It was anticlimactic and an almost dangerously simple process, hidden as they were behind a thick steel door that Erik, like everyone else, kept an eye on, hearts skipping a beat at any and all sounds. 

Everyone was waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

Within moments, it was clear that whatever this was, it wasn't simple. The Cerebro printouts were distinctive, and even if they had been coded, list after list of coordinates wasn't exactly something that could really be disguised all that easily. The only thing in these boxes looked to be random scraps of paper, half-finished and disorganized letters, and a few photographs that made no sense to Erik. He put his box of information back on the shelf with a scowl, dislodging some dust. None of the others looked like they'd found what they were looking for, either. 

"It's not here," Sean said after a moment, voicing what they were all dreading. 

"Obviously," Raven bit out, looking frustrated as she rounded on MacTaggert. "You said it was going to be here!" 

MacTaggert mouth thinned. "I said it was probably going to be here. This is where it was stored when the operation against Shaw was active. I haven't been around here since early October, and it's now the first week of February. When, exactly, did you think I had the opportunity to track down where they moved all the info? Besides, we already knew there was a chance that they removed everything relevant just in case." 

Raven stalked up to her. "If we're going to have to look through every damn box in this room—" 

"And the other room," Sean interrupted to add, and then quailed beneath the glares that both women sent his way. 

"And the other room," Raven continued through gritted teeth, "then we've got to know where to start. You need to tell us where they probably stored it." 

"Do we even have time to stick around and try and figure this out?" Alex interjected. "I mean, if the files aren't even here, we're just going to be wasting our time." 

"If the files are here, they're probably one of two places," MacTaggert said, grim-faced after a moment's thought. "Either in the next room or down the hall, with all the non-active case files. Let's hope it's not there, because even though I know the code by which the secretaries have filed everything, we're looking at twice the number of boxes easily, and it's not as well organized as the active case files. If it comes to that, we might be forced to go through every box by hand." The thought had everyone wincing, scowling or otherwise expressing their irritation with the prospect. Beneath the irritation, however, was the growing fear that they were in way over their heads as everyone's senses screamed with tension and alarm. 

It was only the thoughts of mutants trapped as he had once been, being examined like animals to see what made them tick that kept Erik from giving the command to leave. They would not run and hide, to leave the government to do as they pleased. "Ten minutes," Erik finally ordered tightly. "If we can't figure out where they are in the next ten minutes, we leave regardless. We can't risk it." 

"We still need to check the inactive files," Raven reminded him. "We need someone to go over there. If we're going to do this in ten minutes, we need to split up." Erik let out a series of low, vicious oaths, but he knew that Raven was right. They needed as many eyes possible looking in whichever places were most likely. 

"If we're going to split, however, I want one person standing a guard at all times," Erik emphasized, making sure each of the others met his gaze. "We need to have someone keeping an eye on things." 

"I will take you directly over," Azazel volunteered. "We should not move through the halls unless we must." 

Erik nodded, but then clarified, "Once you drop us off, I want you to stay here. If something happens, get them out, just like I told you earlier. As for who's going with me—" 

"I have to go." MacTaggert drew her weapon, checking to make sure it was cocked and fully loaded. "I'm the only one who knows where they probably stashed the files." Erik conceded that with a nod of his head. 

"Sean, I want you with us too. You're going to stand guard for us. Even if you think you see something, scream as loud as you can. Azazel, keep an ear out for him, and if you hear Sean, take everyone else to safety before coming back for us. Am I clear?" When he got everyone's acquiescence, he said finally, "Alex, I want you to keep an eye on things too. Help Raven and Hank, since they know the Cerebro information best, but Azazel's going to be concentrating more for Sean's voice." 

With everyone organized, Erik held out his hand, Sean and MacTaggert coming to join him. Azazel completed the chain, teleporting them to the inactive files room before promptly disappearing once more. 

They didn't even have a second to observe their surroundings before the world came apart around them in a series of carefully placed smoke bombs and explosions. 

Erik was sent flying through the air with just enough presence of mind to wrap any metal he could get his hands on protectively around him as he went flying into a wall. He released the shield and returned it to its natural state as he staggered to his feet, unable to see his hand in front of his face or keep from coughing. Dust, debris and smoke filled every corner of the room and the sound of falling walls and Erik couldn't even tell which way the door was. More gas started pouring into the room, and this kind set Erik to choking badly enough that he could hardly, eyes burning from it. 

A slight breeze came through the room and Erik gingerly made his way in that direction, eyes watering. He could hear others, presumably Sean and MacTaggert, coughing and stumbling around as well, but he couldn't get enough breath into his lungs to call for them. Besides, it would attract attention to him, which was the last thing he wanted to do. Moving towards the exit at stealthily as he could, he nearly cried out as something hit his arm. Slamming into the metal shield was probably almost as painful as slamming into the wall would have been in the first place, and his right side was already one long, steady ache. He stumbled out into what looked like an auxiliary hallway that was only dimly lit. Smoke was pouring out of the hole, and it smelled like some of the paper might have caught on fire. Erik's lungs seized as he inhaled a mouthful, entire body wracked with the force of his coughing fit. 

He wiped at his eyes, trying to blink past the tears in order to get a better look at his surroundings. A second later, MacTaggert stumbled out, Sean heavy against one side, weapon at the ready in the other. The young man had gotten hit in the initial explosion, and a shallow scalp wound was painting his cheek red with blood. "Help me," she wheezed. "We need to get out of here, get to Azazel—" 

Erik shook his head, coming to support Sean's other side. He groaned softly, head lolling, before he blinked, eyes bloodshot and struggling to breathe. "Wha happen'd?" he rasped, trying to focus his eyes. He couldn't quite manage it. Concussion probably. 

"Sean, just stay quiet," Erik hissed. To MacTaggert, he added, "Azazel should have been here by now, explosion or not. Something's happened. We need to get moving, we're sitting ducks here." Between the pair of them, supporting Sean on both sides, they moved away from where smoke and dust and gas still poured steadily from the hole in the wall. 

They didn't have the opportunity to do more than that, however, for Agent Stryker of the CIA rounded the corner with at least two dozen men at his heels, gave all three of them a smirk and commented, "So nice of you to join us."


	15. Expecting the Unexpected

_Sometimes, they never spoke at all._

_They would move the glass pieces, and catch each other's eye, and they would let the silence say everything they could never in this prison. Those were the best days, Charles usually thought, because the silence was usually an easy one, a truce, however temporarily._

_Sometimes, they spoke._

_They would move the glass pieces and watch each other's expressions more than the game. Those days, the game didn't matter as much as the journey towards the end. They would discuss nothing heavier than the latest research that Charles was working on or speak about potential modifications for Cerebro; Erik had been there from the beginning, after all, and had learned how the machine worked as well as Hank knew it, before Erik had left. Erik sometimes even had some good suggestions for streamlining the process; after all, in that they were still united—they wanted to find mutant children before others could bring them harm._

_Occasionally, though, they would ask each other the difficult questions. The ones to which there were no good answers._

_“Does it ever wake you in the middle of the night? The feeling that one day they will pass that foolish law or one just like it, and come for you? And your children?“_

_Erik tried to sound like Magneto, tried to sound dry and cold and flat. He succeeded, mostly, but Charles had known him for far too many years. Erik was—Erik was_ vexed, _was_ frustrated _and_ uncomprehending _and simply couldn't understand how even so many years later, Charles held true to the same naïve and idealistic beliefs about the possibility of human and mutant unity. Erik spoke as though the sacrifice of one person, of one mutant, for the greater good of the mutant world should be acceptable regardless of the fact that it wasn't done with Rogue's consent or even, frankly, her understanding of why she was being used as a tool. Never mind the fact that he had intended to discarded the young girl when she'd broken._

_Still, just because Mystique, in the guise of Senator Kelly, had changed the man's public stance on the matter—even if the man in question actually had been inclined to a more sympathetic point of view by the end—didn't mean that the rest of government agreed. The possibility still hung in the air, threatening them all and Charles had awaken in the throes of nightmares that left him soaked in fear-sweat and emptying his stomach more than once. “It does, indeed.“_

_“What do you do, when you wake up to that?“ Erik's eyes were sharp, so sharp, something like barely restrained need in his gaze._

_Charles went frigid all over, his voice going frosty. The notion that someone would invade his home and touch his children left him with cold steel in his chest and as close to merciless as he'd ever felt. “I feel a great swell of pity for the poor fool who comes to that school... looking for trouble.“_

_In this, at least, Charles would broke no opposition—mutant or human, if someone came to harm his children, whether they would be breathing at the end of the endeavor would be the least of their concerns._

_Erik sighed, and the chess lay abandoned between them. “Why do you come here, Charles?“_

_Charles knew his eyes were warm. Even in the face of everything else, Erik had never been the enemy. “Why do you ask questions to which you already know the answer?“_

_That had Erik's gaze darkening. “Ah, yes. Your continuing search for hope.“ The words were spoken with an inherent slur, as though the very notion was beneath Erik. Perhaps it was beneath Magneto, who had done things in the name of equality and tomorrow and safety and_ good _that men of lesser conviction would quail at. Of course, that had never been Magneto's problem. Conviction was something he had in spades. It was the less tangible things, the ones that usually mattered so much that were more elusive than even Magneto wanted to admit._ Peace was never an option, _Erik had once told him in front of a fire with the chess set between them only echoing the larger battle taking place._

_Just as it was now._

_Charles wondered sometimes, if he'd just found the right words to say—but no. Erik had no more been a man of words than Magneto was. Actions proved all. Words were meant to placate and flowed easily from those with silver tongues, and though Magneto had learned to speak of his beliefs, he had always preferred to show them. Enough conviction to do something, to really change things, to make the world a better place, that was the only way to make Magneto look and_ see. _All the words in the world, now or then or any battle in between when they'd fought and bled and ached for each other would not suffice._

_It didn't mean Charles would give up, of course, because it wasn't exactly a new conclusion. Charles' X Men would stop Magneto and the Brotherhood, and one day Charles would find the way to prove to Erik that the actions of one human did not make all accountable._

_Erik had been right after all—Charles would quest for eternity in the faith that one day, his hope would be answered._

_As the guard drew him away, game still unfinished, Magneto called, “You know this plastic prison of theirs won't hold me forever. The war is still coming, Charles. And I intend to fight it, by any means necessary.“ His gaze was challenging as though after all this time Charles could be swayed one way or another—into either giving up on Erik or giving in to him._

_As if Charles expected anything less._

_“And I will always be there, old friend.“_

~*~ 

Before Erik could so much as twitch, the men that surrounded them cocked their weapons. Rifles of some kind, though Erik couldn't tell which type exactly. It hardly seemed to matter in the face of the fact that they were outnumbered ten to one easily. If he had been on his own, Erik wouldn't have let that stop him. After all, metal was his to command and it would be but a moment's work to dismantle the weapons completely. Even the idea of bullets being fired at him would have hardly been reason to pause; it would just be more ammunition to defeat them, the work of a moment to deflect them one way or another. He had moved hundreds of thousands of kilograms of metal—bullets could pose no real harm. After all, he'd been prepared to have Charles fire a bullet at him point blank, where he would have to react fast enough to catch the bullet before it ever left the barrel. 

Erik wasn't here on his own, though. Sean's slim body was resting heavily against Erik's own, MacTaggert on Sean's other side. The CIA agent's gaze was darting from Erik to Stryker and then back again, expression obviously conflicted. If she decided to leave, it wouldn't matter; Erik's hands weren't free regardless, and the time it would take to lift them, potentially dropping Sean in the process meant that a hundred bullets might be in the air headed towards them. He should be able to catch them all, probably would, but he wasn't about to take even the tiniest risk that Sean, at least, might be hit. Erik had gotten the teen into this mess and he would find a way to get him out of it, no matter what. 

He thought for a moment of how Charles had murmured that Erik's hands ought to be the next subject of training, since the physical motion not only let people know what he was about to do, but also meant that binding Erik limited his ability to do anything of use. Erik had retorted that he would work on that as soon as Charles dealt with his own crutch, the charming little finger-to-temple motion that Charles claimed steadied his ability to use his powers. They'd argued over the matter fondly, too tied up with training everyone else to dedicate extensive thought to it; they trained when and where they could on such a limited schedule and were more concerned with other, more debilitating aspects of their power. 

Now, Erik wished he'd considered the suggestion more seriously. 

Instead, Erik was forced to remain absolutely motionless, lest a single bullet slip past his guard and wound his teenaged friend. 

Stryker's eyes were sharp. "I see you understand how things are going to go for now." 

Erik's lips curled away from his teeth. "What do you want?" 

Stryker's eyes went flat. "To protect this country from the likes of you and yours, before what you're doing brings about the downfall of greatest country man has known. You are a threat, and unlike those fucking Commies, you're inside our borders, hiding amongst us like you're actual humans." 

Erik let out a deep, furious sound. It tore at his already raw throat, and he couldn't stop himself from erupting into a wracking cough. Stryker's eyes gleamed. Erik spat and it landed near the man's foot. "How did you know?" It was practicality that made him ask, more than anything else. He would survive this encounter as he with Shaw, and he would never let Stryker's trap fool him again. 

Stryker's eyes gleamed even in the smoky hall. "Closed-circuit television. Brand-new; I can make video recordings anywhere and have them transmitted live to wherever I please in order to keep an eye on you freaks. There's already talk of putting these things out on the streets. It was easy to get a system installed in that apartment," Stryker boasted. "We've been following your movements since you arrived. You never had a chance." There it was, the arrogant pride resurging. 

Erik let out another snarl, fingers reflexively tightening around Sean, whose breath caught on a gasp of pain. Never looking away from Stryker, Erik eased his grasp until Sean exhaled shakily. "Even with that, you'll never be able to find all of us." Then, working on a hunch he added, "And after all, we're the only ones that got caught in your trap, aren't we?" Azazel was in all likelihood too quick, even for Stryker's trap. 

Stryker's expression only broke for a split second, but Erik was practiced at determining when he'd touched a raw nerve. Stryker was a good enough agent not to try and carry the con beyond its usefulness, though; if the mark didn't believe you, keeping up the lie was only going to hurt things. Stryker shoved his hands into his pockets, and his smile was thin and cruel. "Well, if you are, then I'll just have to settle for starting with you." He stalked forward, unholstering his weapon and aiming it nearly point-blank at Erik. The metallokinetic steadied himself, ready to act in an instant's notice. "And whether they are here or not isn't going to be of much help, I'm afraid. Stand quietly, please." Stryker was a well-balanced marksmen, standing lightly and evenly on his feet and out of reach of Erik's hands should he try to physically take the weapon from Stryker, never mind that Erik was still trying to support Sean. "We wouldn't want to hurt you." 

As his men moved in, roughly yanking Sean out of Erik's hands, he moved. Quick as a flash, he'd dismantled three of their guns and had neatly slashed open the throats of the men holding Sean with the nearest piece of metal. Stryker's men were prepared and hadn't worn metal, but Erik had no qualms about calling the shards of metal all around him to his aid. Hands free of Sean, he had a better chance of stopping the bullets; he wasn't going to let Stryker's men take Sean and abuse him like Erik had been abused. Sean let out a shriek, forcing another few men to their knees and Erik was fiercely proud that he hadn't frozen in fear. 

A hand yanked Erik's head back suddenly, and a cloth was pressed to his face. Erik struggled out of instinct, trying to get to Sean, but Sean and MacTaggert were both getting the same treatment. If Erik was unconscious, he couldn't protect them, but despite his efforts the room was already going hazy. 

"Yet." Stryker finished, sounding darkly satisfied even with the carnage Erik and Sean had managed the wreak in the few seconds they'd been free all around him. 

The sticky-sweet smell of chloroform carried Erik into sleep. 

~*~ 

Needles. 

Drugs. 

Scalpels. 

Blood. 

Pain. 

No metal to be found. 

Schmidt— _Stryker._

~*~ 

Someone was shaking him. A hand was on his face and there was something blue above him. He blinked rapidly, and the blue smudge focused into Raven, who let out a little sob that made Erik's head throb. "Erik, Erik, Erik," she repeated over and over, hugging him. It made sharp little pains pop up all over his body. "We need to go," she told him next, loud enough for the words to claw at Erik's skull. He pushed at her, weakly, and it took a precious moment before she understood what he wanted and stepped aside just in time for Erik to throw up over the side of the narrow cot that he was lying on. Raven's hand was a steadying presence on his back as he did so that rubbed soothing circles. 

"Well, Hank did say you might react," she murmured, and Erik caught a flash of silver out of the corner of his eye, a needle in Raven's other hand. Drugs, then, to counteract whatever Stryker had put in him. The drugs that had turned the hours into an endless blur until Erik had no idea how much time had passed. Another bout of retching struck him, but while before there had been at least a little in his stomach, now it was nothing more than bile that left his throat raw. He inhaled a ragged breath, and Raven's hands were cool against his skin when they brushed against his brow. 

"Are you well enough to move?" Raven asked, sounding nervous. "I don't want to make you worse, but we need to leave as soon as we can." The ground rumbled beneath them, and Raven quirked a smile. "That'll be Alex. We need to get to the rendezvous point so Azazel can get us out." 

Erik's brain took a long moment to process that, but he finally managed to get his legs beneath him and stand. He wasn't wearing a shirt in the cold chill of the cell, and the loose pants seemed paper thin. He was still nauseous, but whatever Hank had given Raven was enough for Erik to be mobile. He moved carefully, trying to figure out where he was injured. On his right arm was a series of pinpricks along his inner forearm and a wound that had been stitched shut on his bicep. Also on his right side, on his lower back as a bone deep ache that Erik couldn't tell the cause of without twisting around to see the injury, which his body protested. There were also mottled bruises up and down his arms and legs, especially around his wrists and ankles where he'd probably been strapped down to the examination table. 

Then, most importantly, there was the pounding ache in his temples. While the nausea had died down, his vision swam now that he was completely upright and occasionally darkened alarmingly if he moved too fast. He touched his head gingerly, and found a swollen knot on the side of his head that came away caked with old blood. He didn't even remember receiving the injury, any more than he remembered anything else that had happened since Stryker had captured them in the CIA. Everything was vague memories and sensations. His stomach rolled again, and he lurched, this time making it to a bucket in the corner. Little more bile came up, and then he spent another minute dry heaving, shuddering and shaking in reaction to his injuries, the cold and the drugs still pumping through his system. 

Raven had to help him back up when his stomach was somewhat settled again, but Erik knew almost immediately that he wasn't going to be able to do much. Simply reaching out for the metal around him—and there wasn't much, Stryker had definitely planned ahead, but Erik could sense it in the walls around him even if not anywhere near his cell otherwise—left him nearly doubled over in pain. His muscles twitched and convulsed in reaction, heart palpitating, and Erik recognized those signs, too. The beginnings of electroshock therapy as a training mechanism. Schmidt had tried it once or twice before Erik started crumpling every machine in the room on reflex. 

Raven's surprisingly strong body steadied him as she dug around in her pocket and offered another prepped syringe to Erik. "Pain meds," she gasped as she tried to compensate for Erik's increasingly alarming swaying. "Not much, but hopefully enough to get us out of here." 

Erik took the needle from her, guiding it to his own arm. Raven made a sound of protest that she quashed when Erik's fingers only trembled a little. He took in a deep breath, cautiously reaching out with his powers as his muscles cramped. It was enough, though, for him to feel the iron moving in his own body and he directed the needle towards the vein in his arm before plunging the liquid inside. Raven sighed and Erik closed his eyes as relief the drugs hit his system. 

"You alright now?" Raven asked a minute later. 

Erik opened his eyes after a long moment or two. The pain was still there, but it was distant and his head was already starting to feel a little fuzzy. While he'd probably pay for it tenfold when they got out of here, Erik nodded. There would be time enough to sleep later. Raven took a step back and though the metallokinetic staggered a little, he righted himself without aid. "Come on." 

Raven led the way out as other explosions started going off in the facility. Erik could hear them, in the distance, along with shouts for help and gunfire. They passed by a corridor and a billow of hot air swept over them. Things must be starting to burn. "You'd be surprised at how much damage Hank's homemade bombs can do," she said conversationally. "Don't worry, we won't run into anyone on the way. Azazel and I made sure of that," Raven continued grimly. 

Erik's grin was fierce. "Not that surprised. Is everyone alright?" He didn't ask, "How did you find us?" or, "How did you escape?" or "How long were we gone?" Those were unimportant questions in the face of the one he'd actually spoken, and Raven's golden eyes slid to him even as Erik continued to follow her lead down the twists and turns of Stryker's facility. 

"We're good. Well, you know. Mostly good. Just before the explosions went off, someone fired a shot at Azazel. It went in right below his collarbone and out the other side, missing his heart. He got us all out right away, back to Ithaca, but he was losing a lot of blood, and we didn't know what we'd find when we got back, and we just...we just..." Raven's breathing went ragged and she rubbed at her eyes. Her fingers came away wet. 

"You did the right thing." Erik's voice was absolute. Something about her voice made him suspect that Raven had wanted an immediate rescue and had been argued down. He couldn't imagine how badly things would have gone, if Azazel and the others had tried to involve themselves in the midst of Stryker's attack, especially with the only man capable of getting them out in an eye blink might have collapsed from blood loss. He would have been a dead-weight to carry out of the headquarters, assuming they could have ever managed it. Besides, Stryker's currently facility would have been left operational if Raven had attempted to go back for an immediate rescue. His only regret was that Sean had gotten caught up in the mess; Erik had survived this sort of treatment before, and would now. Sean wasn't equipped for it, though, and Erik loathed to thing that his actions might leave scars on Sean's psyche. 

"So anyways, we got Azazel patched up, and he insisted on coming back out as soon as Ally and Amelia had checked the wound and made sure that Azazel wasn't going to die anytime soon. We were lucky," Raven's voice went thin and reedy on the word, and Erik knew that lucky was the last thing she thought they were, "We were lucky that we managed to get back within an hour, but it would have been longer except Azazel said he was fine and he said he was going with or without us, and Stryker's goons were just heading out, and we had to follow them, and it was _awful_ because we couldn't tell what had happened to you, either of you and we were so _worried_." Raven never broke her stride, the consummate professional except for the way her voice cracked and wavered. 

"So we figured out Stryker's security and tracked you down, and now we're busting you out," Raven finished a moment later with false joy and childish simplicity. "And Stryker's not going to have much left of this building." She sounded grimly pleased at that. 

Erik noticed Raven didn't say a word about MacTaggert, and kept silent on the matter for now. He couldn't help remembering the way MacTaggert had glanced between Erik and Stryker, unsure, but something hard and dark glittering in her eyes. She'd probably leapt at the opportunity to throw herself at Stryker's feet, to get Erik's collar off her and embrace the delusion that she was free. 

They moved in silence from then on, perhaps another two or three minutes of skulking through the halls before Raven slid open a door, peeked inside, and let out a little sigh of relief. She motioned for Erik to follow her, and Raven closed the door behind him. It was a plain little room that carried a number of miscellaneous cleaning supplies. Raven helped Erik to sit down on the single chair in the room and hopped up onto a small table nearby. Though she appeared to be lounging, Erik could see the way she was on edge, waiting for the door to open once more. "Now we wait for Hank and Sean to show up, and then go to meet up with Azazel and Alex." 

"They're not meeting us here?" Erik inquired with no small measure of surprise. 

Raven shook her head. "Azazel doesn't know this place. We didn't have the chance to do much more than figure out where you and Sean were and how to get you out. Hank and I found this place to hole up while Azazel and Alex when and did their work, distracting everyone. We've got to meet him up three levels and near one of the entrances once Hank gets here." 

They made quiet conversation for a few minutes more, Raven assuring him that Charles was still well and no one besides Azazel had even suffered any injuries in the past three days that Erik had been under Stryker's thumb. It was light, easy conversation that was practically meaningless. Erik didn't press for the details of how long the hours must have been, trying to determine where Erik and Sean were being held, praying they were not yet dead. Erik needed only think of himself in their situation and he knew all the horror of it fully. He wouldn't tax Raven any more than she already was and there would be time enough for questions later if he needed to ask them. 

Their vigil was answered when the giant blue form of Hank opened the door as silently as he could, Sean cradled in his arms. Sean was pale, dressed in the same clothing—or rather, lack thereof—that Erik himself was dressed in. He, too, had bruises around his wrists and ankles and needle marks patterning his inner elbow. He was sweating too, pupils large for the brightness of the room, much like Erik suspected his own were. Erik couldn't tell if it was because of the drugs, the concussion that Erik himself was suffering from, or if it was something else entirely. Unlike Erik, however, Sean had a bandage wrapped around his throat that made Erik's heart stop in his chest for a moment. Sean's sonic scream was all about his voice, easy to pinpoint to a given location in a way Erik's couldn't be. 

What had Stryker done to Sean? 

Sean stirred, and tried to move out of Hank's grasp. Hank resisted until Sean snapped in a voice that was stronger than Erik expected and more irate than he'd ever heard the man use, "I can walk." Despite the display of temper, Sean didn't do much more that twitch weakly in Hank's arms. His voice didn't sound much better, a low harsh rasp that buzzed against Erik's skin. 

"Sure," Hank agreed. "That's why you practically fell the second you tried to stand." He shifted, propping Sean up against his shoulder. Sean gave up and flopped against the man's Kevlar vest. He made a face. 

The movement had him catching sight of the others in the room. "Raven!" he exclaimed then, regaining some of his normal cheer. Erik saw him wince when he swallowed, though, and there was something drawn and tight in Sean's usually even features. Then, with even more relief, "Erik!" 

Erik reached out a hand, resting it on Sean's shoulder for a moment when the younger boy feebly struggled upward, face brightening. "Stay with Hank," Erik commanded, but his voice was soft with clumsy affection. 

Sean rolled his eyes, but sagged into Hank's arms, looking around. He opened his mouth for a second and then closed it again. Raven made an inquiring sound, and Sean bit his lip. "Where's Moira?" he inquired in tones of deep dread. Whether Sean thought that Stryker had done something to her, or that Raven and the others had done something to her, or whether MacTaggert herself had done something, Erik wasn't sure. 

Raven's face was a mask, but she couldn't keep from fidgeting. "We don't actually know. I looked for her when I was around earlier, but I didn't hear anyone talking about her, and I didn't see her down in the cells. I tried to find out if she was with Stryker, but no one seems to know what happened to her. It's like she's disappeared." 

Erik was quick to add, "And either way, we can't wait for her and even if we did find her, we can't take her with us. She may have been...compromised." That was probably the kindest term for it, because whether Stryker forced MacTaggert's hand or not, the information was probably already his. That meant Ithaca was no longer safe, Erik knew, and the loss of their home was only the start of the problems that MacTaggert had caused with her betrayal. 

Erik tamped down on any rage. It wouldn't help them get out of here, which was his top priority. Raven, Sean, Hank, Alex and Azazel needed to get out of this mess safely; it was all his fault, after all. He should have stopped everyone earlier, refused to allow the mission to happen the second that he knew Stryker was aware of what they were planning. Then, to split up in order to look for the Cerebro data was something Erik should have never risked. He'd let his desire to get his hands on the information outweigh every other concern, and he'd put everyone else in danger as a result. 

He stared at Sean without really seeing him. Stryker's men had taken their toll on Sean's body, and Erik's powers surged, the need to make Stryker pay tenfold for every mark over coming everything else. Erik would come back on his own, without the others to worry about, and show Stryker exactly why he should have left Erik's people well enough alone. 

"Let's get going." 

~*~ 

Moira couldn't quite help it when her mouth dropped open, the gun she'd taken off one of her guards nearly falling from her lax grip. She hadn't actually expected Stryker to have told her the _truth_ when she'd asked after the Cerebro files. In his position, Moira certainly wouldn't have, perhaps even after months and months of tracking and controlling his every move. After her capture and drugging, she'd awoken free of her collar and in a clean, quiet room. There were guards outside, of course, since Stryker wasn't a complete idiot, but they'd been willing to take her to the bathroom when she asked, though they stood outside the stall and made sure she had enough food and water. 

Stryker had shown up some time later. Moira couldn't tell what time it was without windows and the drugs having thrown off her ability to internally keep track of time, but that didn't matter. She knew that Raven and the others would be coming for Erik and Sean, at the very least. She only had to hold on long enough to get to that point. 

She'd admired McCone, more or less, and he'd been willing to admit for the most part that she was a capable agent whose recommendations were sound, but Stryker was far from her biggest advocate. From day one he had been opposed to the, "mutant threat" as he'd termed it more than once in her presence. That was probably the kindest of the things he'd called Charles and the others—Raven especially. The woman's blue skills and eerie amber eyes had left an impression on the man that made Moira's skin crawl. 

Stryker had greeted her with a sort of thin pity disguised as sympathy. "I had my doctors take that collar off as soon as it was safe to do so," he began in what was intended to be a conciliatory fashion. "It's horrific, isn't it, what those monsters are capable of doing." 

That had pretty much set the tone for their entire interaction. 

Moira had played the perfect damsel in distress, if she said so herself, practically falling over her own feet to thank Stryker and nearly bursting into tears that were only partially forced. "I was so scared," she murmured, weeping in a surprising amount of earnestness as the last few months crashed over her, but doing her best to pretend she wasn't. Her tears may have been at least somewhat genuine, but Moira wasn't stupid. Had never been stupid. 

She knew how this played out, had seen it a hundred thousand times over in history just as she could see what Stryker expected to happen written all over his smug face: Stryker would call the mutants, "freaks" and "repulsive" and talk about how they "weren't human" for what they'd done to Moira (never mind that Stryker was clearly barely any more interested than Erik had been in making sure Moira was alright, so long as she had vital information she could give him). Moira would talk about how she'd scraped together a survival beneath the unholy terrors, and then join Stryker's cause because of course there was no thought that she could have truly allied herself with monsters. Moira knew the mutants better than anyone else; with a little time and training, if she proved amendable to the idea, Stryker could use her as a weapon against them. If she proved hesitant in "betraying" the creatures who had kept him captive, Stryker could pander to her feminine softness and coax the information out of her. No matter what, with one of the mutant leaders in his facility and Moira's information at hand, Stryker would have scored a definitive victory against the mutant populace. 

It made Moira ill. 

Even if she wanted to turn against Erik, how could she possibly turn against Hank, Alex, or Sean? They'd get caught in the crossfire, a poor repayment for their friendship, loyalty and help over the long months since the day on Cuba when everything had fallen to pieces. Beyond that, could Stryker possibly think that she'd just forgotten about the fact that she'd been on the beach when they were trying to exterminate the mutant threat that had just saved the world from a third global war? Or perhaps he was just imbecilic enough to think that she'd forgiven the government for it, writing it off in her mind as necessary damage in the face of the so-called necessary destruction of the dangerous individuals on the beach? 

So she'd smiled and nodded and said all the right things, gave Stryker what he wanted to hear. The whole time she made sure to ask questions, to memorize her surroundings, to take every inch Stryker was foolish enough to give her and turn it into miles. 

After all, that's what an enemy spy was supposed to do. 

One of those miles had been how he'd known that they were coming. He'd been only too gleeful to show her the new video recording surveillance equipment that CIA was starting to use. It had taken Moira a mere second of thought to realize this must have been what Erik had sensed, though he hadn't know what it was at the time. The listening devices might have been destroyed, but it would have been easy to track their movements via video recordings, the closed-circuit television, as Stryker called it. 

Another mile was delicate inquiry into the Cerebro data Erik and the others had been after. Stryker had been all too willing to boast that the documents weren't even in the CIA facility any more, and hadn't been for months. They were hidden in Stryker's office, accessible only by the man's personal code. Which might have been an obstacle if he'd taken a closer look at Moira's easy acceptance of genocide and decided that maybe she shouldn't be in range to hear the tones of the number of Stryker's code—7890101. It was the work of a mere moment to find the data organized neatly in his filing cabinet. There were the original documents, of course, but there were also extensive files detailing the attempted tracking down of those mutants given their locations. With an ear out for any noise beyond the door, Moira hurriedly flipped through the files, heart in her throat. She only let out a sigh in relief as file after file was labeled a negative—apparently, without someone like Charles, actually determining which person in a populous of even ten thousand was nearly impossible. 

Still, there were a few affirmed cases, and Moira gathered those up as more explosions rocked the base. 

Moira found herself smiling at that just a little before she headed back out into the fray and away from the fire and rubble—Hank and Alex were accomplished at chaos. However, so was she. 

Taking only the files she deemed necessary, she piled all the remaining papers in the room atop the old oak desk, and pulled out the lighter she'd appropriated from Stryker's desk. Smoking as such a nasty habit, but as she set the reams of paper aflame, she thought it might have, for once, had some use. 

Moira stepped back, watching the inferno grow and begin consuming everything. When she was finally satisfied that nothing of the documents would remain, she left Stryker's office, gun in her right and files in her left. She clutched the files close as she ran towards the sounds of rubble and rage. 

After all, if there was destruction being rained, Moira would bet she knew who was at the heart of it. 

~*~ 

Pain medication notwithstanding, Erik nearly blacked out when the elevator doors opened and everyone made their escape. Raven had to practically drag him out, and Erik's stuttering control failed and he released the elevator, which crashed down and landed with a rolling echo that had everyone's face turning white. 

"Come on, we'd better move before someone gets any bright ideas," Raven said in an undertone, ushering them along. "Stryker's men might have come back since we were last through here. Azazel should be getting ready to meet us any minute, and we aren't going to want to stick around." 

Erik's entire body felt like it had been pummeled, but he gingerly followed Raven, Hank and Sean bringing up the rear. If Hank noticed that Erik was flagging, he didn't say anything about it. Then again, what could be said? If Erik didn't remain on his feet and traveling under his own power, Raven wouldn't be able to support him for very long on her own. It would slow the entire group down, perhaps fatally. Erik had no doubt that Stryker was probably already enacting counter measures, so the shorter time that they spent here, the better. 

Despite their worries, they managed to get to the exit that Raven claimed Azazel would meet them at without incident, though they'd had to do some re-routing to avoid those hallways that had sustained damage. The entire facility seemed like it needed nothing more than once good push before it fell down around everyone's ears. Even as things stood now, from the way Hank and Raven had described what everyone had done, it would take Stryker weeks, if not months, to try and get his building in working order once more. 

Raven finally held up a hand. "Stay here," she whispered, morphing into the form of a guard and running towards the entrance. Erik, Hank and Sean were hot on her heels, however, spreading out to defend Raven should her disguise falter. She took a look around, the landscape lit by a dim red glow; it was hard to see if there was anyone about, with the way the fire and rubble painted strange shadows in the darkness. It was now or never, though, so Raven turned her back, stumbling over a rock she couldn't see— 

The bullet struck her in the shoulder in some sort of bizarre echo of what Azazel much have suffered, Erik could see, and she went toppling down. Erik let out a scream of rage when she did, launching himself through the door and narrowly catching another bullet that would have gone through Raven's head. He reversed the trajectory, and someone grunted in pain in the trees. There wasn't the thump of a body hitting the ground, but Erik hoped he'd left his mark. He planted himself firmly in front of Raven, while Hank left Sean against the wall and knelt beside his friend. 

"Raven, Raven!" Hank begged, gently rolling the woman over. 

The shapeshifter let out a little whimpering sound. "Fuck, fuck," she gasped. "That hurts. Oh, God." She squeezed her eyes shut and a few tears rolled down her cheeks. 

Hank comforted her in the background and Erik stood solidly in front of her, hands at the ready. The adrenaline was clearing his head, if only for a little, and making it even easier to ignore the throbbing pain. Sean staggered to his side, barely upright but with unrelenting strength in his gaze. "Just tell me what to do," he rasped. Erik was simultaneously grateful for the support and wishing that Sean had stayed out of the way, propped against the wall where he was less of a target. 

"Just keep them off me," Erik muttered. "If they get too close, they'll overwhelm us, so don't let them get that far. We just need to hold them off until Azazel and Alex get here." Then, in a louder voice he called, "Stryker! I know you're out there somewhere. I know you prefer hiding from your prey," Erik made sure to lend the words a heavy dose of irony, "but surely we are of no threat." He grinned, showing an inordinate number of teeth. "At least, we aren't when you've got all sorts of drugs and weapons to try and tame us." Erik laughed richly, putting on the show that he was mostly unaffected from his ordeal. "I don't see those now, though, so I suppose you're right to fear us." 

Erik had judged Stryker right the moment he'd met the man. It was almost too easy to manipulate him, with challenging words and use of an understanding of the world Stryker could never match. Erik had spent a lifetime dealing with people just like him—Nazi soldiers and scientists, used to abusing power and loathing it when those they saw as animals dared to rise above the much where they belonged. They would do foolish things in the name of crushing an opponent and Erik could use that. 

There was an unspoken signal, and people started to emerge from the woods. Ten, twenty, a hundred and then two hundred slowly left the shelter of the trees, inching close. Erik swore vividly under his breath, Sean sparing a moment to gaze at him appreciatively. They were outnumbered even more heavily than they'd been in the CIA headquarters, and with Hank tied up with Raven, it was left to Erik and Sean, neither of whom were in prime condition. 

Once his men had assembled, Stryker stepped out as well. He was mostly shielded from by his guards, sticking out in a sore thumb in yellow Kevlar and bulky helmet presumably to protect him from their powers. Beneath the protection, however, Stryker's face was wan and pale and soot-streaked. "Give up now, Lensherr!" Stryker called, but it lacked the force he'd mustered back at headquarters. Clearly, even Stryker hadn't expected the damage that a mere three mutants could leave in their wake—Hank's bombs, Alex's plasma rings and Azazel's unique brand of terror had all left their mark. 

Erik didn't even deign to respond to that. Instead, he murmured in a voice that only Hank's strengthened hearing could comprehend, "How long do we need to stall?" 

"Around forty-five seconds," Hank whispered back. Erik glance at him only long enough to see that Hank was using his own clothing to stem the blood flow. Raven's golden eyes glittered in the dim light as her chest heaved, so she was alive, at least. For now. Forty-five seconds was a long time in battle, longer still when lives were on the line. The longer he could keep Stryker talking, the better. 

"I could say the same for you!" Erik shouted back, raising his hands threateningly. "Let us go, and live a little longer." He had a hold on about half of the guns, trying to figure out the best way to disable them without calling attention to what he was doing. "Our friends will be here any second, and I'd hate for you to get in their way." Erik took a risk and looked over his shoulder. The entire building seemed to be either smoking, actively on fire, or little more than rubble. It was quite impressive, actually. Just to needle Stryker, Erik whistled his appreciation. 

"My men are tracking them down now," Stryker said through gritted teeth. "Don't rely on them to come to your rescue." 

Ah—there. Erik knew the trick of it now, and his hands twitched slightly as he pulled, focusing on the sniper rifles first and trying not to give away what he was doing with his hand gestures. Those were the more complex mechanisms; it was more important that he take out the still-hidden weapons first than the ones the men in front of him were armed with. Like he'd done to the guns in the Russian general's home, Erik made the mechanisms spring apart and then crushed the metal for good measure. He was already seeking out the remaining guns, intending to give them the same treatment when— 

Erik didn't know what gave it away, but even from here, Erik could see when Stryker's eyes widened. "Kill them!" he screamed, and then it was all Erik could do to fend off the bullets. 

Several hundred bullets of slightly different trajectories, all coming at him from slightly different angles and needing to be stopped had Erik reaching out. The memory of Charles' arching back had him stopping the bullets instead of merely deflecting them, even though that would be far easier. Instead, he stopped them, letting them drop to the ground while using his other hand to drag metal from the facility at his back. Thickening it, he dropped it over Hank and Raven almost as a shell. Erik didn't expect anything to get past him, but it was better to be careful. Erik reached out another hand, a scrap of metal appearing in his hand that he sharpened expertly and without a thought. The men were hardened combatants, and with the sheer overwhelming force, it was clear that they thought victory was close at hand. Erik's hands flashed out, metal careening through the air and crashing into one pocket of Stryker's men and then he was stopping still more bullets. 

Sean shrieked, letting out a tight and controlled blast of air that stopped them cold. He narrowed his focus, and Erik could feel the rising nausea in the back of his throat. The drugs kept him from actively throwing up, but the men Sean was aiming at weren't so lucky. Erik heard sounds of retching and more than one man fell to his knees. 

Other men managed to gather their strength, crowding together, guns in one hand and knife in the other. They came for Erik in a short, controlled rush meant to overtake him quickly and kill him before he knew what was happening. Erik managed to rip the guns out of their hands and fire a few shots, but the knives didn't respond to his call and Erik had to tamp down the panic at the knowledge, pulling together a shield from the bullets and bullet casing littering the ground. 

He fended off the first knife and the second, and shattered the third with one of the myriad of guns Erik was controlling, but he was only one man, and the it was the fourth that scored a deep slash across Erik's ribs that had him dropping to one knee. He faced the fifth knife without flinching, knowing even as he lifted the shield it was never going to get up in time, and simply threw his powers out around him, dismantling every gun in a three mile radius. To do so earlier would have taken the last of his consciousness and he couldn't leave Sean exposed like that. If he's going to die anyways, he might as well. 

He had nothing left to lose. 

Then, as he released his power and threw open his arms, baring his teeth to the man who would have Erik's blood on his hands, succeeding where so many others had failed, a shimmering silver arm caught the man in the solar plexus. There was a sharp snap as an equally clear foot broke the man's neck. The knife of the final man slid off a faceted shoulder, and another fierce blow was dealt. 

Emma Frost turned to Erik, that full mouth of hers pursed. "You need to stop being so dramatic, sugar." 

Erik collapsed in slow motion, sinking to his knees, hand over his wound. There was absolutely nothing he could say to that, so he didn't even try. As it was, he couldn't muster the energy to keep standing, let alone use his powers any more. There was nothing left in him, nothing left at all and he had to grit his teeth from crying out against the thought. Then, from the corner of his eye, there was a flash of red of Azazel, and Alex for that matter, joining the fray, defending Erik as Frost lifted him up easily, her diamond form giving her strength her normal body did not. "And before you yell at Azazel or me, let me tell you that Mystique and the others agreed that they needed my help." Even her teeth glinted with diamond when she smiled. "You can thank me later, after we've sorted out this mess." 

Erik didn't even have the energy to protest, black spots dancing across his vision, pain from his injuries finally overcoming everything else. Frost settled him against the wall, where Hank had stemmed the worst of Raven's bleeding and was now standing in front of the shelter Erik made for them, fending off anyone who got too close with sheer, brute strength. Erik wanted to help, but his limbs refused to obey. Instead, he was forced to watch as Frost gave him a cheeky little grin before saving Hank from what would have been a blow to the head. 

Still, even if his body was refusing to cooperate, his voice was working. "Azazel!" Erik called above the clamor of weaponry and war, "We need to get out of here!" 

Azazel reacted instantly to his voice, clearing out enough space that Alex and Sean were able to take steps back, both of them bloody and bruised, eyes shadowed even under the cover of nightfall. They set to work immediately to getting Raven out, Hank closing ranks with Azazel and Frost who were still fighting, almost tirelessly, the movements so practiced in tune that it was glorious to watch. Erik had a fierce surge of love for this, _his people_ , Emma Frost and Azazel and Hank McCoy, diamond and ruby and sapphire, destroying the humans who would take from them their right to exist. 

A hand was placed over his mouth and Erik might currently be dead weight, but he wasn't yet _dead_ , so he fought to get the man off, pushed beyond his limits and wholly unaware of how he was even conscious right now. 

It was Stryker because _of course_ it was Stryker, because Erik had expected no less. Erik's wound was still bleeding sluggishly, and this had to be getting ridiculous, Erik should not have to face death twice in less than ten minutes, there should be a limit to things like that, but he's survived worse. He was damn well going to survive now because he'd already gotten his surprise rescue from Emma Frost—which is already something he'd loathe to admit, even if it was the only time she'd probably ever do it—so Erik was on his own. That was fine; Erik would find a way to kill Stryker if it was the last thing he did. 

"Ceramic," Stryker revealed as he brandished his dagger, "Cracks more easily than steel, but I think I'll take my chances," because the man couldn't seem to shut up, couldn't seem to stop trying to prove that Erik was worthless over and over again. 

A gun barked once, and then twice, and Stryker jerked, mouth parting slightly. 

Blood spread across his chest as he sank to the ground, knife suddenly dropping out of nerveless fingers. Erik stared down at him, uncomprehending, and when he looked back up, Moira MacTaggert was crossing the grass between them, face an emotionless mask. She was clutching a handful of bloodied and dirtied papers in her arms, and Erik gaped at her. 

"I'd have been here sooner, but _someone_ forced me to reassemble the gun I was using," she announced calmly, like this was a little trick she'd performed. She holstered the weapon in the back of the pants she was wearing, shoving it in carelessly and then smudging the blood leaking from a cut on her face when she brushed back her hair. Erik blinked a few times and then listed to the side. MacTaggert had to lurch forward in order to keep Erik from accidentally braining himself on the stony ground. 

This—this was finally too much, Erik suspected, because the black spots coalesced into a tunnel, and Erik couldn't tell whether Azazel was around or not when he rasped, "Hellfire. Now. Bring Charles and the others, too." The CIA wouldn't be able to as easily attack Hellfire as they'd be able to attack Ithaca; Erik didn't know if Stryker knew the location of their base, but he wasn't going to risk it. 

"Дa, босс," Azazel assured him. His voice sounded like it was coming from a long way off. Erik blinked a few more times, exhaustion hitting him like a sledgehammer all at once. 

There was something Erik should be concerned about, but the memories were slipping through his fingers as his breaths slowed. He was holding onto someone's arm, tight, and their body was warm. He was so tired and in such pain. He prayed everyone was safe. 

_Charles,_ he thought once. 

Darkness.


	16. For A Price

_"Is it? Or are you afraid of losing one of your precious X Men... old friend?“ The smile on Erik's face was almost gruesome, the look in his eyes blank and dim. It was the same distance Erik had kept their entire conversation. It was hardly unusual; sometime Erik needed the distance if for nothing else than his sanity. This though, the defeated undertone, like Erik knew that Charles had already lost his X Men and was just waiting for Erik to realize it, made Charles stare at him in horror. Even here, with Erik's mind completely defenseless to him, Charles refused to simply go striding in as though he was permitted to do so._

_Charles couldn't help the way his heart fluttered in his chest. Terror was clawing up out of it. Mere months ago, what was it that Erik had said? What if someone had gone after his children, after_ Charles' _children and the same rage and the cold mercilessness swept over him. “Erik,“ Charles whispered in a voice that was too even, too calm for the shuddering fury that filled him,_ "What have you done?" 

_The veneer of a smile dropped completely, and Erik looked lost in a way Charles hadn't seen in years, not since the early days when Magneto had witnesses too many nightmares and created too many of his own. “I'm sorry, Charles. I couldn't help it.“_

_Charles believed him. If Erik had a choice, he would die before injured the innocent mutants in Charles' school. Magneto would willingly steal the ones who had completed their training under Charles' care for the Brotherhood's cause, would corrupt them at the earliest opportunity, would involve them in this destructive conflict, but he would_ never _leave them to the mercies of a man like Stryker if he could stand against him._

_“What have you told Stryker?“_

_A sigh_. 

_“Everything.“_

_Hissing filled the room. Gas—probably some sort of sedative because they'd have half a dozen means to kill them both earlier and hadn't. Charles' heart was hammering in his chest. Considering his body mass, it would probably take at least two minutes for unconsciousness to occur. They had time, if only they could make use of it._

_Magneto just smiled at him, sickeningly serene. “The war has begun.“ He began to sink to his knees, a giant felled._

_“Scott!“ Charles roared, the only man in a position to help him now. He began wheeling himself to the door, yelling all the while. He placed his hands against the plastic, trying to physically push through; the door wouldn't open without receiving the signal from the guard on the other side, and Charles wasn't foolish enough to believe he would find help in that quarter. He clawed at the plastic; even if he could create a hole in the material it might be enough to buy them a few precious seconds of awareness. In the long years since Magneto had started his war, Charles had learned the value of even a second in battle. Time was of the essence._

_“You should've killed me when you had the chance!“ Magneto cried, voice strong and resonant despite the haziness that was surely tugging itself over Magneto's senses as well as Charles' own._

_Charles didn't even dignify that with an answer. Erik knew so much, knew secrets that Charles had been sure he would take to the grave with him. The location of the school, Cerebro, even some of the defenses; Erik was as vested as Charles in keeping the school secure and so Charles had made no mention of the fact that Erik had set up his own defenses around the ones Charles and his fellow teachers had designed. If Stryker knew that, knew all of that, knew how to undermine the only security so many of Charles' students had ever experienced, he was going to destroy lives._

_They had security measures in place, of course. Countless ones. Charles had even taken it upon himself to start training the eldest students as well as the teachers in how to make sure that everyone escaped in a quiet and timely fashion—just in case. They even practiced what the students had taken to snidely calling, “human drills“ in a mockery of the fire drills before Charles had quietly and firmly put an absolute and iron-clad stop to the name. They had trained and practiced for this day, because while Charles would always hope for the best, he was no longer foolish enough not to prepare for the worst._

_That was a luxury that had been taken from him years ago with the words, “Oh, my friend. I'm sorry, but we do not.“_

_Charles closed his eyes against the sudden hot sting of tears._

_Charles should have been near screaming in rage, all of his hard won control from years of practice shredding in an instant, but he felt queerly distant from himself, removed from his own skin. He watched dully as Scott responded to Charles' cry, turning his powers against the guards and the woman that entered. Charles' mind was wholly on the school, however. Charles' students and teachers, his friends and family._

_Charles would find a way out of this, somehow._

_And Stryker would_ pay _._

~*~ 

The first thing Erik heard when he awakened was, "Oh, thank God. Now maybe she'll stop making me serve alcohol to sleazy old men." 

Erik spent a few moments staring at the ceiling because he was reasonably sure that no one expected him to give that statement a coherent answer until his brain was actually functioning. While his mind was doing so, Erik took stock of his injuries, dredging up the memories of what had happened from the depths of his mind. The cut across his ribs seemed to be healing well and though his muscles were stiff and sore, they responded to him well enough. The stitches across his upper arm had been replaced with clean thread and the needle tracks in Erik's arm had all but disappeared. The ache in his back had faded to something barely noticeable, and while there were still a myriad of bruises covering his body, Erik had felt far worse. Even his concussion seemed to have cleared up. Admittedly, his eyes felt grainy, as though he could easily sleep for another twelve hours, but he was conscious. 

He shifted a little, hissing as his injuries flared with pain, but Sean helped him sit up, putting a cup in his hand. Erik drained the cup; water, with a touch of something minty. His head felt clearer after he'd finished, and Erik cleared his throat, feeling considerably more awake when he turned his gaze to Sean once more. 

The boy in question hurried to reply to Erik's silent demand for answers. "You've been asleep for two days. Azazel took us all here, to the Hellfire Club I mean, like you said." Sean took no efforts to hide the fact that he was reminding Erik that this was all his idea in the first place; as though Erik could have forgotten, the bitterness over the decision still souring his stomach. The last thing he wanted was to put himself further in Emma Frost's debt, as if the fact that she'd saved his life wasn't enough. 

"We're all okay," Sean hastened to add. "After we got you here, Azazel went back and got Charles, Alice, Amelia and Ed. The Prof is fine, of course, and Miss Frost—" 

"Miss Frost?" Erik couldn't help interrupting. 

Sean made a face. "She won't answer to anything besides Miss Frost or the White Queen when we're talking to her. Not Azazel, I mean, but the rest of us." Erik rolled his eyes. Of course she wouldn't. Nevertheless, Erik gestured for Sean to continue. "So anyways, we all came here like you said. Miss Frost has got Charles and Amelia and Ally down the hall—we're all beneath the Hellfire Club, in some of Miss Frost's secret rooms—with all the medical supplies they need." Sean scowled. "While we were all waiting for you to wake up, she put Hank and Chandler to work helping out with some repairs around here, and she's making Alex and me serve drinks and she told _all_ of us that if we mess anything up, she'll make sure we spend the rest of our lives thinking we're four year old girls. She's just letting Azazel to do whatever he wants, mostly," and Sean sounded both awed and incredibly frustrated at the prospect. 

"Raven?" Erik prompted. 

Sean's mouth worked for a moment. "Raven is..." he hesitated, unsure of what to say, but then plunged again, getting the words out as quickly as he could, "Well, I mean, Alice and Amelia helped her, and her gunshot wound is already basically gone, she'd been healing really fast even without their help, but everyone's doing pretty good, by the way, I can't remember if I said that already, but, anyways, about Raven. Right. I don't know, but I think they're, Raven and Miss Frost I mean, I think they're bonding because I went to ask Raven something and she and Miss Frost were getting their nails done or something and she told me to leave because I was ruining the am—ambi—ambidance, or something, the mood, and Miss Frost told me that she wouldn't leave me as a four year old girl, she'd turn me into a newt, or make me think I was a newt and I wasn't sure if she could do it but I wasn't going to find out." 

Erik closed his eyes. Emma Frost and Raven bonding while getting their nails done. Would wonders—and horrors, evidently—never cease? As if it hadn't been bad enough, her lying about getting Frost's aid, haring off to an enemy potentially as dangerous as the CIA; Frost could steal whatever secrets she so desired while Raven was near her and the shapeshifter would be none the wiser. The telepath could then use that information for all manner of nefarious purposes. Not that Azazel could be regarded as being was much better. 

Erik had trusted the teleporter, but not only had the man taken those who had escaped Stryker's trap to the Hellfire Club in the first place, he'd also probably had some hand in helping Emma Frost escape the CIA's custody. Charles had taken strenuous pains to ensure that the woman would be safely behind bars, unable to steal precious government secrets, but Charles had never encountered another telepath before and thus had only been able to test the CIA's defenses himself. Who knew how effective those measures had been against the diamond telepath. Still, Frost probably didn't have the power to hide her escape from the entire CIA without someone sounding the alarm; hence, Azazel. 

The thought of the CIA stirred another thought. As if Erik's life wasn't complicated enough, dealing with the contentious Frost, in whose debt Erik now was and who was probably the only person in the world capable of figuring out what was wrong with Charles. 

"And MacTaggert?" 

Sean stared at his feet for a long moment. Erik snapped, "MacTaggert?" in a voice of cold steel, and the young man jumped. 

"I—uh, well, y-you saw what she, uh, did," he stammered. Taking a gulping breath, he continued in a slightly more even tone, "After she shot Stryker, s-she helped carry you over to Azazel. You mumbled something to him, and Azazel got e-everyone, uh, around him. You know, for like, teleportation? And Moira said that she was coming. And Raven said that like hell she was. And then they were yelling at each other instead of fighting, and then it got real quiet. Most of the, uh, f-fighting was done anyways, so I looked over my shoulder and Miss Frost was staring at Moira, really intense. Like how the Prof gets when he used his powers. And all Miss Frost would say afterwards was that Moira could come. So she did, and we got here, and I haven't seen her much since, but she says that Miss Frost comes around a lot. So...I think they're okay?" Sean's voice rose uncertainly at the end. 

Erik closed his eyes, fighting the hot response on his lips. He'd left the care of the mutants of Ithaca to Raven's leadership, but somehow they'd not only managed to find themselves under Frost's thumb _and_ in her debt but they'd also managed to bring a CIA agent who'd been under Stryker's control in the facility back with them to the Hellfire Club. 

Erik hated to rely on ridiculous proverbs and sayings, but he was starting to suspect there was some truth to the old adage that if you wanted something done right, you had to do it yourself. 

"It seems," Erik began in a voice that was strained and weary to its limits, "that I must speak with Miss Frost." He put a purposefully disgusted slur on the title. 

"That's convenient," Frost said by way of greeting from the doorway, leaning against the wood in a way that somehow managed to display her every curve to advantage, "since I need to speak with you, Erik. And please, call me Emma. I have a feeling we're going to become intimately acquainted." 

That was, as a matter of fact, the last thing that Erik wanted. 

Whether she saw it on his face or in his mind—for Erik knew she lacked the scruples that Charles had for limiting the use of his gifts—it didn't matter. Frost smiled either way and imperiously gestured for Sean to leave. When he scampered, she seated herself in the free chair with all the grace and condescension of royalty. 

Erik had never been one to back down from a challenge, so almost before Frost was seated, he inquired in a dangerously pleasant voice, "What do you want in repayment for your help?" 

Whatever Erik was expecting, it certainly wasn't for one perfect golden brow to rise and a surprisingly sweet smile to spread across her face. "Now that, Erik, isn't something you need to worry about." 

Erik ground his teeth in frustration. "What is the catch?" Each word was bitten off, snapping in the otherwise silent room. 

Frost pursed her mouth. "You weren't the one who asked for my help. If I were going to demand recompense, it would fall on the shoulders of the darling Raven and Azazel as the ones who came to me for help with the rescue and a place to stay until you were all healed; so relax, because you demanding so uncouthly to go back to the Hellfire Club was already planned. Therefore, it's not something I'll be asking payment for. Lucky for you, I owe Azazel a few favors of my own and was only too glad to settle some old scores. And, well, Raven and I already worked out an arrangement. Plus, any opportunity to get revenge on that sniveling idiot Stryker is excellent incentive." At the inclement storm growing on Erik's face, Frost rolled her eyes. "You can ask her what we agreed, if you'd like. And I promise that she agreed to it of her own free will." 

Erik glowered. "Not that we'd be able to tell the difference if you fucked around in her mind anyways." 

Her smile was razor thin. "Precisely. So it seems like you've got no choice but to trust me." Erik snorted in laughter at that, and her eyes went as cold as her namesake. "Listen, Lensherr," and for the first time, she sounded properly irritated, "I don't hold Shaw's death against you. He was getting too out of control, even for me. Why do you think I arranged to be in the CIA's hands until after Shaw had been dealt with?" She tossed a curl over her shoulder, looking unconcerned, but there was something hard and dark in her eyes. "Besides, I picked up some useful information while I was there, information that I've been trying to put into use that might be better served in your hands. I'm a little busy with," she waved a hand expansively to include the Hellfire Club as a whole, "all of this." 

Erik thought about that for a moment, instincts warring. She sounded sincere enough, and Erik had made a study of the many ways in which people lied. He wasn't perfect at figuring out deception from truth, but he'd learned most of a liar's tells in self-defense. However, how much of his desire to accept Frost's words was his own emotion and how much of it was Frost nudging his thoughts? How much of this entire conversation was something she had been influencing on some level or another? 

Erik rubbed at his forehead. A pounding headache was throbbing in his temples, and the aches and pains he'd gathered over the last few days were complaining. There was no good answer to the threat that Frost posed; even if Erik could protect himself, he had no way to protect himself and everyone else. 

Frost stood then, willowy form graceful. "I know you probably won't believe me, but if I wanted to do anything, I would have done it while you were unconscious and largely unprotected. I would have made sure that your allies were on my side. I would have made sure by one method or another that you would be in my debt, regardless of the circumstances. I would have left nothing to chance. I would have done a lot of things that I didn't do because—and I know this might be shocking—I have nothing to gain by it, not really. I stayed with Shaw for as long as I did in part because he offered the chance to gain power. He's dead and gone, so I've resorted to other methods that have worked perfectly well, thank you. Besides, even if I wanted to do all that, I don't have the power, first off. And if you start messing around too deeply in someone's mind, there are...consequences." Frost's lips curled back to reveal a dangerous smile. "So take your time. Freak out." Her mouth curled delicately around the phrase, as though the slang was wholly foreign. "Talk to whomever you wish. And when you're ready to have an actual, reasonable, adult conversation about the next step, just let anyone of the help know. They'll bring you to me." 

Without pausing, Emma Frost left the room. 

~*~ 

"You wanted to see me?" Raven asked, peeking around the edge of the door. 

Erik was sitting beside Charles, absently rubbing his fingers across the back of the telepath's hand. It seemed unfair, that after everything they'd all suffered, Erik hadn't even been able to awaken to Charles being conscious. It would have been worth everything, if only to see Charles' smiling face after the agony of the past few days. He hadn't really expected it to be the case, but some tiny hope still flared each time Erik walked into Charles' room even now, the hope that Charles' dark lashes would flutter and the brilliant blue eyes would be revealed and Erik would have someone to help him do this, this helping the mutant cause business. Though it was Raven and Azazel who had led the others against all odds to rescue him and Sean, Erik didn't think he'd ever be able to quite stop thinking of the mutants he and Charles had gathered during their travels as the children—as _his_ children. 

Erik shook his head, pulling his brain back to the present. "Of course. Come in, please?" 

"Sure." Raven came in casually, brushing a curl of red hair back behind her ear. "What's up?" 

"Tell me what you promised Frost you'd do." The words were flat, uncompromising. 

"You realize that, technically, this is none of your business." 

"I am your current leader, Raven. I need to know what you're planning on doing." 

"You're not my father, mother, brother, sister or, in fact, related to me in any way. Considering that I was the one that saved your sorry ass from Stryker, in fact, I think I can be considered perfectly capable of making my own decisions. All that matters is that I was willing to pay the price." Raven sounded just as stern. Her golden eyes met Erik's squarely. 

Erik's mouth thinned. "No, that's really not how it works. I am responsible for you." Hesitating, then forcing the words out, "As your brother's friend, as _your_ friend, I need to know what you and Emma agreed on." He'd never actually said the word "friend" that he could recall; he'd long since admitted to himself that they were the closest thing he'd had to family since his parents had been killed in the camps, but he couldn't remember if he'd ever spoken the words like this before. 

Raven looked down at Charles, contemplative, but Erik couldn't quite read her face. When she remained silent, neither agreeing or disagreeing with the statement, he swallowed and admitted. "I'm going to ask for Frost's help to try and wake Charles up." Raven's eyes flew to him, and Erik smiled self-depreciatively. "We've literally got nothing left to lose. Your house is compromised, Ithaca might be compromised, Stryker knows we're still alive and active and knows that so is Frost as well, and I don't think we can do this anymore without Charles. Frost wouldn't give up the Hellfire Club to come with us and really help, and we still need to track down all of the mutants out there who need us. If we have any hope at all of getting Charles back, we need to take it." 

Raven watched him carefully. "Why do you trust her, all of a sudden?" 

"I don't," Erik returned bluntly. "I don't know if I ever could. It's not about me trusting her; it's more that we don't really have a choice. And...it was something she said. About how she would have done it already if she was going to do it, and how it wasn't as easy as I was making it sound when I was talking about just changing people's minds. She's probably trying to make us underestimate her, but that doesn't matter either, not really. We need Charles, and to get Charles, we need her. And I want to know what Emma Frost asked of you, because if that somehow puts you in jeopardy, or Charles, or if it's something that puts any one of us at risk..." Erik trailed off, shaking his head, and his eyes were grey ice. "Nothing is worth that. Charles wouldn't want you to get hurt for him." Then, a touch more softly, "And...and I wouldn't want that either." 

Raven's mouth quirked in a grin, though for only a moment. "It's a little late for that. I mean, I already faced down Stryker for you, and got shot because of it." At Erik's expression, she hurried to add, "But I'm totally fine, more than totally fine, it was a through-and-through." She tugged at her shirt, revealing that the mark was well on its way to being healed. "So don't even start." She rotated her shoulder with nary a wince. "I mean, it still hurts, but it isn't too bad, not really." 

Raven waved a hand then. "But about Emma, all she asked in payment was an alibi. She mostly just wanted me to be extremely visible in the Hellfire Club looking like her while she went and did—well, I don't actually have any idea what she did. But she told me she needed a large number of people to be absolutely sure of her location for most of the evening, and I wasn't going to ask too many questions after that. I handled that the first night we were here, actually, so it's sort of a moot point." 

Erik nodded, shoulders tense. Raven was right. He'd been trusting her with missions for months now, expecting her to help Ithaca function, and this was no different. She'd taken the initiative while Erik was captured as he'd expected she would do, and she'd made the decisions she thought was best. He could trust that. He could trust _her_. "Alright," he said simply, and Raven's face blossomed into a relieved smile. 

Then she sobered, reality sinking in. "Do you really think it's a good idea to let Emma Frost try and wake my brother up?" 

Erik's voice was grim as he informed her, "I think it's the most awful idea I've ever had, but we don't have another option. 

"It's Emma Frost, or no one." 

~*~ 

Frost was only too happy to greet him in her office, standing and grasping his hands as though they were old friends. "Erik, how nice of you to join me," she greeted, and her eyes were laughing at him mockingly. 

Erik was in no mood to humor the telepath, however. "I want to make a deal with you, Frost." 

"Emma." 

Erik ground his teeth. "Emma." 

The telepath gestured for Erik to sit across from her at the wide, oak desk. The seat was surprisingly comfortable, and Frost looked pleased. "Now, what can I help you with?" The smugness in her tone was almost enough for Erik for get up and leave once more, but he forced himself to stay. 

Haltingly, grudgingly, Erik told the story of what he and his allies had been through the past few months, attempting to keep his language bland and curt. The story, stripped of all emotion and focused on the practicalities of what Erik needed from Frost was almost startlingly short, and he fell silent afterwards. Frost made no effort to fill it, studying Erik like he was a particularly fascinating insect that she just wanted to dissect. He wondered what it was she was seeing in his mind as he spoke, and decided not to dwell on it. The only thing that really mattered was that Frost understand how desperate he was to have Charles brought back to him. 

"Alright. I'm willing to help you," Frost murmured finally. "For a price." 

Erik didn't flinch. He'd expected it, after all. "What do you want, Emma?" Frost had as good a poker face as Erik himself, and the use of her first name didn't make her react. Still, she remained patient until Erik snapped, "What do you _want_? I _know_ you have something in mind already." 

Frost tapped one elegant nail against her absurdly clean desk. "I do, as a matter of fact." One last, sharp, brilliant smile. 

"I understand," she purred finally, "that you are in possession of Nazi gold." 

Erik froze, going hot and then cold all over. He stared sightlessly at his hands in his lap, mind blazing with shock and confusion and a bone-deep horror. That bar of gold represented one of the last tangible pieces of the wealth his people had rightfully gathered despite centuries of oppression, stolen as their art, their pottery, their jewelry, their history, their _lives_ had been stolen and recast in the sick mockery of true wealth, a mockery that Hitler thrived on. 

The bar of Nazi gold he'd spent years tracking down after the war, the pain and agony that he'd gone through to get his hands on it, not to mention the blood of countless Nazis and Nazi sympathizers who had been more than willing to turn a blind eye to the genocide taking place beneath their noses. As if that wasn't enough, he'd had no time and no way to properly claim the hundreds of other pieces of wealth that might have given his people some small measure of comfort and stability after the war. To have had the fillings stripped from their mouths, their wedding rings ripped from their fingers, the gold melted down from anything religious in nature. Then, after they'd had everything of meaning seized from them, they were sent to the camps to have their heads shaved, their arms tattooed, their entire life cut down to a series of numbers before death came for them. The camps had been bad enough, but what was almost worse was after—starting from scratch, trying to build themselves into something that was at least _human_ again, trying to go from losing every member of one's friends and family and make their lives into something worth living. 

Even now, almost twenty years later, there was still oppression and inequality to be found by the Jewish people who had already suffered so much. As though after so much agony and misery the Jews should simply be happy to make some kind of living. Erik—Erik hadn't even realized how much the plight of his people plagued him until now, how much it ached that he couldn't do more for them, for what they had suffered. Schmidt had and always would be his priority, but he had done what he could to help them when the opportunity presented itself. Schmidt had always loomed, had always stifled any possible peace he might have achieved, so he'd moved on sooner before later, but he had tried. He didn't practice his faith the same way he did as a child, but even before Charles had brought forth the memory of a quiet December night with candles being lit, the memories of prayers and laughter had been close to his heart, buried deep beneath the rage and hatred that fed him to keep them safe. The memory of it all cut Erik to the quick and left him gasping for breath, struggling to maintain some semblance of composure. 

The wealth the bar represented was of no object, of no thought, when compared to what it represented—a piece of history that the greater world would be all too happy to let be ignored because of the shame it represented. 

And Emma Frost wanted it. 

Emma Frost, who had no real conception of what that gold _meant_ , as though it were just a _bauble_ to be bartered with—Erik's hands started shaking with a blind rage that he couldn't control as he raised his eyes to Frost's own. 

Except—except he could see now that she _did_ know what it meant, had been there every step of the way as the chaos of his mind threatened to overwhelm him. Emma's eyes, softer than he'd been expecting and a world more serious than he'd thought possible. She'd asked for the one thing that he'd have the hardest time trying to part with, and in the process demanded to know exactly how much Charles was worth to him. 

Charles who— 

Charles who— 

Charles who was intelligent and sweet and arrogant and well-meaning and sanctimonious and clever and devious and so goddamn good and a hundred thousand other things that defied definition and description and all reason. 

Charles, whom he couldn't do without. 

Erik closed his eyes to keep the unshed tears from falling, even though Emma probably knew they were there. 

"Yes."


	17. There and Back Again

_Charles couldn't escape it, the overwhelming sense of urgency that was instructing him to find the mutants, all of the mutants. The order came from a lovely, sweet voice sank deep into his bones and blotted out the tiny, insignificant part of him that told him he wasn't supposed to be doing this, that this was dangerous, to stop._

_The glory of it, though, of those absolutely_ brilliant _points of light glowed within Charles' mind—oh, how beautiful, how_ astounding. _A hundred thousand people with almost as many different mutations. Stephanie Rogers, to whom the molten stone at the heart of the Earth responded with glee. Natasha Kohutiak, who could make any plant-life answer her command. Tony Downing, capable of calling down lightning from the sky and wielding electricity without harm. Their pulse was his own, beating in time with his own heart and he could feel their mind surging against his own._

_He tightened down on them, focusing in on every single detectable mutant life, until he was breathing with them,_ living _with them._

_A surge of something terrible barreled through him, something dark and bitter that he'd felt once under a hot Cuban sun, and Charles stared blankly at all of the thriving minds, struggling to figure out what was going on._

_Then the moment broke, shattered, and he was just sitting in Cerebro, confused with the little girl. “That's strange,“ he said mildly, even though his heart was starting to race. He didn't want to disturb the little girl, whose face was so young and voice so sweet. Facts struggled to rise to the surface of his mind, but he couldn't manage to grasp any of them for more than a second or two._

_Something slipped into his mind, a voice more familiar to him than his own. Something about rules, Charles thought almost dreamily. That voice was absolute and Charles felt a brief urge to turn from Cerebro and greet the familiar face. The sensation of sand, a chess game, hot steel and strong hands flared briefly in Charles' mind, followed by a sense of hopelessness and despair._

_“There's been a change of plans—find the humans.“_

_All thoughts of that other voice faded, and Charles cast his mind out once more, this time looking for an entirely different bright set of lights._

_Before he could truly grab hold of those fascinating minds, however, there was a flash of diamond chill, the sensation of something shattering—and Charles opened his eyes._

_“Erik?“_

~*~ 

If there was one thing that could be said for Emma, it was that she didn't waste time. It was only a matter of hours for Erik to get his hands on the gold, but Emma hadn't even bothered to check that he'd given her the right one; of course, she could probably see it in his mind, but she made no effort to test his patience by verifying it was, in fact, the correct gold. 

Instead, she directed him to leave the gold in her office while she made preparations for seeing to Charles. Those preparations, as Erik saw when he joined Emma in the room that had been set aside for Charles' use, consisted mostly of commanding Amelia and Alice to move the bed away from the corner it had been tucked into while she observed and making sure that the rest of them stayed as far away from her as possible. All the while, she peppered them with surprisingly intelligent questions on the state of Charles' wounds and the treatment that he'd received, trying to determine the probable state of his mind and body from that. 

Erik leaned against the doorway, watching silently; none of this was news to him. Charles' back, though he would need extensive physical therapy and help before he regained his full strength, was almost entirely healed and capable of sustaining movement. How much, however, would remain to be seen—Ally hadn't been able to promise that healed meant functioning, something that still cut deep into Erik. Once he'd returned to the Hellfire Club, Charles' friends and family began crowding in around him, lingering in the doorway with him. Erik didn't know how they'd figured out what was going on, but he suspected that it was because Raven was clinically incapable of keeping her mouth shut. 

"Sugar, bring that chair over here," Emma said absently, frowning down at Charles, and it was a good ten seconds before Erik realized she was referring to him. He brought it over, a hot reply on his lips, but Emma was wholly focused on Charles and didn't react to the way Erik slammed the chair down near her. She simply pulled the chair around Charles' bed and settled herself comfortably near his head. She gently bracketed Charles' skull with her hands, fingers on his temples. 

Emma took in a deep breath. "Doctor Cooper, Doctor Wright, if you could please step away. The more distance I have between you and Xavier's, the easier it will be for me to touch his mind. You too, Erik." Obediently, everyone backed away, but no further than the entrance to the room. Emma appraised them for a moment, mouth curling wryly, but she didn't demand they leave entirely. Erik, for one, would have ignored the demand, and from Emma's look, she knew it. 

"It's not going to look like much," Emma warned, but then she turned from them completely, ignoring them as though they weren't there. She took in a deep breath and let it out slowly, the tenseness in her shoulders and around her mouth seeping away as she focused herself. Her lashes fluttered a little and then slipped close. 

Long moments passed, and Erik couldn't detect any changes in either Charles or Emma at first. 

Then, all at once, the hair on the back of Erik's neck stood on end. 

Their eyes were flickering beneath their lids at the same time, a rapid disturbed fluttering that didn't look normal. Now that he was focused on it, Erik could see them breathing at the same time as well, long and slow inhalations and exhalations that were completely in sync—and growing faster. Erik swallowed, skin prickling with sudden discomfort. He'd never seen Charles go so deeply inside any single person's mind that their unconscious responses were one and the same; he hadn't even realized that _could_ happen, let alone what it meant now. 

_What is Emma doing?_ he wondered. His heart hammered a little as nausea struck. _Charles...Emma, damn you, be careful._

One, then two, then five minutes passed, then another five, and Charles and Emma continued to physically react to whatever was going on in Charles' head. Erik gazed at them, hands clenching and unclenching in fists. Raven's hand was firm on his shoulder as she murmured in a deceptively light tone, "Erik, please get a hold of yourself." Following her gaze, he saw the way all the metal in the room was trembling. Taking a deep breath, he fought the urge to knock Emma away from Charles' prone form. 

"This was a bad idea," Erik growled under his breath as another minute passed, "Fuck, this was a _really_ bad idea." He started forward, fear surging, but before he could touch Emma, she inhaled sharply, breaking the bond between her and Charles, sagging in the chair and turning to diamond in the same moment. She stared at the ceiling as she struggled to breathe, her limbs quivering as though she'd just completed a marathon. 

"Charles!" Raven cried, pushing past Erik and grabbing her brother's hand. "Charles, are you alright?" 

"What happened?" Erik snarled, uncaring of how battered Emma looked as he stormed into the room. "What did you do to him?" She made a little noise of surprise, but her diamond form kept her well-protected from the grip that would have bruised anyone else. He shook her a little, and Emma's hand flew to her temple. 

"Try that again, Lensherr, and I'm going to have my men drop you in the middle of the desert and laugh as you try to find civilization," Emma snapped in return, pushing away Erik's hand. She glared not at Erik, but at Charles. "What did you _do_ to him?" 

That made everyone stop and blink, turning to Erik and Emma in surprise. "What did _I_ do to him?" Erik asked, confusion momentarily displacing the incandescent rage. "What do you mean, what did I do?" 

Emma's eyes flashed, the pale blue glittering faintly. "Yes, Lensherr. What did you do to him?" For the first time, Erik realized she was calling him by his last name. It was unsettling, when she'd been so insistent on referring to him by his first. Erik wasn't sure what had caused the chance, but it made his skin crawl unpleasantly. 

"I don't...I don't understand. What did you...what's happened to Charles?" Erik hadn't heard his voice sound that young in years, and crimson shame stained his cheeks while his throat tightened alarmingly. "Is he alright? What's in his head? Can't you...can't you help him?" 

Emma stared at her. "Everyone leave," she demanded suddenly. "Now. Leave." When she saw them hesitating, she rose to her feet, looking otherworldly with her every facet refracting light. "Now!" she barked, and she looked ready to push everyone out if she had to. Still, everyone looked to Erik first; Erik was looking at Emma, however. 

"Go," Erik agreed finally. His gaze shifted to his friends; Hank and Sean's transparently worried faces, and Alex's anxious scowl. Azazel didn't look like he was stressed, but his knuckles had turned faintly pink where he gripped the door, the pale spots of color practically glowing against his scarlet skin. Even Alice, Ed and Amelia were staring at Charles, conflicted. Raven was ashen beneath the scaly blue of her skin, golden eyes wide. Emma's accusation hung in the air, heavy and tangible and terrifying. If Erik was responsible for Charles' illness, if he was responsible for taking Charles away from the people who cared for him—Erik pressed a hand to his mouth to try and keep the frightened words locked behind his lips. "Please, go." The last thing he wanted was them to hear was what he'd done to lock Charles into this unconscious state. 

Erik didn't look away from Charles as everyone slowly filtered out, casting frequent glances over their shoulders as if hoping Erik would change his mind. Raven was the last to go, and she refused to depart until she'd hugged him firmly, kissing his cheek. "You will figure this out," she whispered, searching his face. There was no accusation in his voice, only worry. "Promise me that you and Emma will fix this. Tell us the second there's anything we can do to help." 

Erik nodded, mute, and Raven's face scrunched up as she attempted to keep the tears at bay, rushing out of the room. The others let her pass, and Erik couldn't read the complicated looks on their faces. Or perhaps that was just Erik's own guilt eating him from the inside out, burning through him like acid as he tried to figure out what was going on. Erik shut the door behind them firmly, before turning back to the telepath. 

"Tell me what happened to Charles, Emma." 

Emma gracefully seated herself once more at Charles' head. After a second's thought, she began quietly, "It should probably come as no surprise that the mind can be injured, just like your body can. Traumatic experiences leave their mark on more than just skin; the human consciousness tends to..." she gestured helplessly, trying to put into words that which couldn't be truly verbalized. She made a frustrated little noise. "It tends to leave dark emotions that sort of...stain the psyche, weaken the sprit. The worst injuries can end up affecting the subconscious, leaving injuries that affect everything from reactions to certain sounds to breathing." Emma pinned Erik with her gaze, still in her diamond form. "I've never seen a mind like Xavier's." 

"Like...a telepath?" Erik tried, but it was a vain hope. 

"Well, that might have had an effect," Emma admitted, "but I was talking about the injury itself." Again, language itself presented an absolute barrier to what she was attempting to describe. "I don't know how Xavier does it, but when I use my telepathy, it's like I can see everything a person is. I don't always understand it, but...it's like an instant knowledge." She could see that Erik didn't quite grasp what she was saying, so she tried again. "There are people in your life that you know well. Without them ever having to say anything, you can tell how they're feeling, what they've been doing, what they're about to say. That sort of practiced comprehension of how their minds work based on their unique experiences. It's not like that all the time; I have to actively go into their mind to get that. Usually it's just thoughts and impressions of the people around me." 

She sighed, and shifted with a crystalline sound, the facets of her diamond form reflecting light from new angles. "When I went into Xavier's mind, I couldn't find him." Her voice didn't change in the least, but Erik's keen eyes picked up the way she shuddered just slightly; it didn't hurt that the shudder set off a soft chiming sound. "I thought for a moment that he was simply gone, had lost the ability to find his way back to his mind." That was a terrifying in and of itself—but one that Erik couldn't afford to address at the moment. She shuddered again, and her voice went distant; she stared over his shoulder as though he wasn't even in the room. 

"Then I saw—I don't even know what it was. In the corner of his mind, there was this, well, barrier is probably the best word for it. It was meant to lock something away, I think. But what was coming from it..." Emma rested a hand lightly on her stomach. If she had been in her human form, Erik would have guessed she'd have vomited. "There was fear and guilt and shame and horror and so many other things from Xavier, all leaking out from behind the block he put up in his mind. I found something else, though, something strange. I felt _Shaw_." 

Erik's heart stopped. 

"I spent the better part of three years in and out of that man's mind whenever I could safely manage it. I know Shaw better than most, and I have never felt what I felt from him in anyone else." Accusation filled her voice. "Shaw got his hooks in Xavier, and the only reason I could see Xavier spending time in Shaw's mind would be for you." At Erik's open mouth, Emma turned away, continuing, "It's like the man _burnt_ a psychic impression into Xavier's consciousness. I can sense the injury, but I can't pinpoint it. I think Xavier tried to seal the impression away before it could do too much damage behind the barrier he erected in his mind, until he could try and heal it himself, but I suspect he somehow got locked in with it when the additional trauma of the day occurred. I've honestly no idea what exactly Xavier was thinking, so that's only my best guess, but either way I can't get in. It's like it's a fortress. Every time I try to get close and open it, the entire thing turns into a seamless metal monstrosity that I can't get a grip on to pull away from the wound. When I get too close, or try to interfere too long, Charles' natural defenses start trying to forcibly remove me from his mind. If Charles is trapped back there, I think it's at least partially his own doing, and his subconscious understands that whatever happened to him is incredibly dangerous and he's trying to protect not only himself, but everyone else. 

Erik barely heard her explanation over the roaring in his own ears. What was it that Raven had said, all those weeks ago? That she thought she heard Charles screaming inside of the downed plane? Erik's memories of the day returned in full Technicolor, and if he remembered correctly, that would have been about the time that Erik had been in the midst of finally achieving his revenge on Schmidt. 

The coin. 

Charles would have been intrinsically bound to Schmidt in that moment, holding him steady so that Erik could drill the coin through Schmidt's skull. Charles, whom Erik had cut off with Schmidt's helmet over his head; if Charles had been injured by his time in Schmidt's mind, Erik wouldn't have known despite all of Charles' efforts. Hadn't he seen the ragged look on Charles' face when he'd taken those steps out onto the beach as the humans turned their guns on the mutants? He'd thought it was stress at the time, stress or horror or fear or any one of the hundred emotions that Erik himself shared. He'd hoped that Charles would finally see what Erik had known to be inevitable, and Charles would stand by his side as Erik protected his people from the humans who wished to enslave and murder those under his protection. 

Had Charles already been suffering the ill effects of Erik's attack on Schmidt even then? Had Charles faced down Erik with Schmidt's presence still in his mind? Had Charles' brilliant and sharp mind been devastated by Schmidt, the man's last act of terror and pain by a man on the verge of death? 

Erik swayed on his feet, lightheaded. "Is that it?" he asked, and his voice was stripped of all hope, all kindness. 

It was the voice of the living dead. 

Emma looked up at him, distant and sorrowful. Erik didn't want to know what she was sensing from him beneath the frigid, blank exterior, but Emma's terrible expression already revealed too much. "I'm sorry, Erik," she murmured softly. "But...I don't think there's anything we can do. Xavier might recover on his own, one day, but..." she shook her head. 

"But...but..." Erik protested, feeling foolish. This couldn't possibly be the end; after everything that they'd endured, after everything they'd faced, after everything, Erik _refused_ to let Charles go. Not this time. 

Never again. 

Resolve flowed through his veins, the absolute conviction that this was not all that Erik could do. "That fortress in Charles' mind, the one that wouldn't let you in. It's made of metal, you said?" 

Emma frowned. "Well, in as much as anything that is created in the mind can be any actual substance. That's what it looked like, though, and in the mind, visualization and will are key. Why?" 

There was an idea threatening to rise to the surface of Erik's mind. He closed his eyes, trying to form it fully. "Could I move it?" Erik found himself inquiring, sounding far less strange than he thought he had any right to. "Even though it's in Charles' mind, it's metal. Or he thinks it's metal, at any rate. And I can move metal, and Charles knows what I can do. So, could I move it?" "I..." Emma looked flummoxed, the first time Erik had seen anything like it on her face. "I have no idea. Xavier is a telepath, so he would probably respond to your presence in his mind the same way he responded to mine. Since your mutation is to move metals, you're right. It's conceivable that Xavier's mind would accept that you would have the right to at least try and manipulate the metal of his fortress. You have a better chance than anyone else," Emma admitted, "You're a familiar mind, but you're also the only one who might have a chance to get beyond whatever it is that Xavier erected to protect himself." 

"Can you do it?" Erik demanded with a fragile and dangerous hope, "Can you take me into Charles' mind?" 

A spark of challenge lit itself in Emma's eye, bringing warmth to them. "I can certainly try." 

They snapped into motion, rummaging up a second chair for Erik and setting it near Charles' head. Emma straightened her own chair, the diamond shimmer disappearing and leaving the very human Emma Frost in its place. She reached out with one hand, resting her fingertips lightly against Erik's temple and Charles'. "I don't know how long I'll be able to hold this. I pushed myself to the limits last time and I don't think I can do that again. Work fast," she commanded. Erik nodded, careful not to dislodge Emma's soft and warm fingers. 

Then Erik was standing in darkness. 

Emma stood next to him, appearing in the familiar pristine white clothing that she always wore, but something about her shimmered at the edges, as though she were constantly on the verge of transforming. "Emma?" Erik inquired, looking around him for some sort of detail, some sort of clue as to what was going on. Instead, they were standing in a featureless expanse, lit by a directionless light and no defining features to be found. 

"I can't go any closer without Xavier's mind attempting to kick me out. From now on, you're on your own," Emma said, then turned to stand vigil. 

Erik inhaled sharply, staring at her back for a few long moments. Nothing changed, however, not even a gust of wind to disrupt the dead silence and darkness. Mustering his control, he began walking in the opposite direction. Almost immediately, a wall began looming, moving closer far faster than it should have; it completely towered over him within seconds, or at least it felt like seconds. It dominated the landscape, looming over Erik. His heart hammering in his chest, Erik reached out a hand, brushing his fingers along the seamless metal. It was cool to the touch, and was constructed by nothing that Erik could see. He peered at it, trying to figure out what it could possibly be. Titanium, perhaps, or reinforced steel? Something familiar, at any rate. 

Something flickered on the edges of Erik's vision, and he froze. Turning his head, he watched as something that somehow managed to appear even more shadowed despite the overwhelming blackness _writhed_ in the shadows. Something acrid reached Erik's nose, and his hair stood on end. Licking his lips, he placed both palms flat against the surface, trying frantically not to dwell on the part of his mind that was asking, in an increasingly panicked voice, what the _fuck_ that was. His breath came quick and fast as something like pure terror surged in Erik's veins when the shadows started _hissing_. 

Erik had to move this wall, and do it now. 

Rage and serenity. 

Erik reached out with his powers, trying to find the width and girth and breadth of the fortress keeping him from Charles. It seemed to simultaneously go on forever and to be as thin and delicate as a hair, fighting his grip. He fought back, struggling to take control, trying to keep his fear at bay all the while. "No, come on, Charles," Erik gasped, sweat starting to gather at his temples and the small of his back. His muscles strained against the immense weight of the wall, which grew heavier with every passing breath regardless of how large or small it was. " _Charles_ ," Erik muttered warningly. 

Rage and serenity—the notion that Schmidt had ever _dared_ to touch Charles' mind, to leave his mark on the fragile hope and joy that made Charles so alive; the notion that Charles could come back to him in one piece yet, could join and stand with Erik and _live_. Rage and serenity—Erik could do this, this was no more difficult than the submarine or the satellite. 

The hissing shadows crept closer, and now there was the unmistakable sense of Schmidt's mind that accompanied them. Schmidt's laughter rang out, low and cruel, and horror and shame not Erik's own swamped him and left him gasping for breath as fear-sweat ran into his eyes. He returned his attention to the wall, but couldn't keep from looking over his shoulder time and again, trying to open up the wall with all of his strength. Still, the wall resisted and Erik cried out as his muscles protested the abuse. 

It wouldn't budge. The shadows pressed in closer, but the wall wasn't budging. There was no way out, either, no way to make it back to Emma without immersing himself in shadow. The barrier was his only option, and he couldn't even get it to flex despite all the power he was pouring into his attempt. Panic made his body shake. "Please, Charles, please, please," Erik muttered fervently under his breath. "Fuck it all, Charles, I don't care, just let me in, please, please. Charles." He kept trying to drag the wall away, to at least make a hole large enough for Erik to get in. 

Nothing worked. 

Erik slammed a fist against the wall, again and again. "Fuck you!" he screamed at the wall, absolute despair taking control of his mouth. "Dammit Charles, how _could_ you! You can't just leave me here, you can't! I came for you, Charles, we need you, _I_ need you!" 

Something ghosted across his shoulder, and Erik whirled, the rant that was building breaking off into a strangled yell. The darkness was encroaching, trying to grab Erik and make it his own. Erik tried to back up, scrabbling against the wall. 

"Charles," Erik breathed as the terrible emotions and Schmidt's horrifying psyche grasped for him with greedy fingers. He couldn't seem to fill his lungs properly, and he was sure that his heart had never hammered this quickly. "Charles, I'm not going to leave. Please, Charles. Let me help, let me—" the shadows left lines of cold where they touched him and his next words came out in a squeak, "—no, _Charles_ , come on, please, please, _please_ —" 

They were all around him now, and Erik was drowning in the shadows and cold fire and Charles' shame and guilt and Schmidt's malicious glee, so he threw his mind wide open to give Charles everything, absolutely _everything_. Charles' patient smile as he coached one of his students, the way his full-bodied laugh would light up his face from the inside out, the way Charles cared. Erik gave him late night chess matches and the way it was more than just the alcohol that warmed his belly and then gave him the unparalleled joy that Charles had given back to Erik when the telepath had revealed Erik wasn't alone. Erik wasn't alone—he was never alone, had friends and family where he'd once had hatred and revenge. 

_Charles_ , Erik pleaded, and there was nothing but blackness. 

Then Erik blinked, and he was staring at the ceiling of Cerebro. 

Except it wasn't actually Cerebro, it was some dilapidated and strange version of it, one that looked minutes away from collapse. Groaning, Erik put a hand to his head, wondering what the hell had just happened. He rose to his feet awkwardly, staggering and rubbing at his face. 

"Erik?" 

Erik squinted for a moment, trying to clear his vision. Cerebro had been destroyed, though, hadn't it? When Schmidt's mutants had come calling. Then Erik recalled he'd been spoken to and turned towards the voice. 

It was...Erik actually had no idea who it was for a long moment. Sitting straight-backed in a wheelchair, behind some sort of metal contraption sitting on what looked like a table, an elderly gentleman gazed at Erik. Bald, strong-featured, broad hands clenched onto the armrests of his wheelchair, the man stared at Erik with nothing short of awe, bemusement and an old pain that Erik didn't know how to parse. "Erik?" the man repeated, the word trembling in the air. 

It was the blue eyes that finally did it, and the minute Erik pieced it together he didn't know how he could have thought the man was anyone else. Gleaming with a stern good humor, Erik knew this man. 

Sometimes, it felt like he'd always known this man. 

"Charles." 

It broke the tense silence that had hovered in the air between them, and Charles rolled forward around the metal table towards Erik. The metallokinetic couldn't help reflexively reaching out for the wheelchair, as though feeling the cool metal with his powers would let him understand what had come to past in this land of nightmares to place Charles within it. "I don't understand. Erik, you look like you're thirty again. Younger, even." He reached out, marveling, only to stop with his hands a heartbeat away from Erik's skin. "I don't understand, what's going on? How did this happen? Where are we? I don't—I don't understand," Charles stammered. 

Erik came to kneel at Charles' feet, trying to figure out the answer to those questions himself. Catching Charles' hand unexpectedly, he pressed Charles' worn palm against his cheek. It was callused and rough and so very warm against Erik's skin. Seeing Charles again, talking and moving and alive in a way Erik hadn't seen for months had his breath catching in his chest, even if Charles looked closer to sixty than to twenty and was trapped in this chair—it didn't matter, not truly. None of this was real, Erik reminded himself, trying to keep his breathing even. It was made easier by Charles' hand against his cheek. "Charles," he rasped, and he could find nothing else to say for long moments, simply basking in the sensation of Charles' skin against his own. 

"Erik, how are you here? I thought—the last I saw you, I—" he cut himself off suddenly, shaking his head mutely. "I don't understand," he repeated, this time a little more helplessly. 

Erik took in a deep breath. "Charles, wherever we are, whatever you think it's going on, it's an illusion. Do you remember Cuba?" At Charles' wide-eyed nod, which illuminated some of the laugh lines on his face, Erik continued, "After you got shot, on the beach, you...you were unconscious and injured, and we had to get you off the beach, so I got Schmidt's mutants—Azazel in particular—to help me. Do you remember that?" 

Charles shook his head. "How are you this young?" he inquired, and beneath the polite façade, there was a steel blade. "Erik, you're not making any sense. You were—I saw you in jail! I put you there myself! And then Stryker got his hands on you—" 

Erik frowned in confusion, "That CIA agent? Well, I mean, he did but—" 

"Not the CIA agent, his son, William, he wanted to 'solve' the mutant problem and he wanted me to cure his son, Jason—" 

"No, Charles, you're not listening to me, please, none of this happened—" 

"What do you mean, none of this happened? Tell that to Anna-Marie, one of the mutants you claim to protect, Erik, say that to her face—" 

"I don't even know who Anna-Marie is, what the hell are you talking about—" 

"I'm not going to do this with you, Erik—" 

" _Stop!_ " Erik shouted, "Just _stop_ , Charles, you have to listen to me. Please. Listen to me," Erik clenched Charles' free hand between his own, his other hand still against Erik's cheek. "Charles, I didn't...how could you think I would do any of that? I have no idea who Anna-Marie is, Charles, I swear. I don't even know what her mutation is." Erik took a deep breath. "You've been in a coma for about three and a half months. You've been unconscious, Charles, and we couldn't wake you up, we couldn't figure out what went wrong. Stop this, Charles, and wake up! You have your entire life waiting for you; Raven and Sean and Alex and Hank and even some new mutants—Azazel has joined us, and Alice and Amelia and Edmund, and we need your help. We need _you_. Please, wake up, Charles, and come back to us." Erik entwined their fingers, sweetly earnest. "Join me, Charles, please." 

Something in Charles' eyes shattered, and he yanked his hand away, backing up as he shook his head, blue eyes overfull. "This is cruel, even for you, Stryker! You couldn't possibly think that I would believe this!" Charles called into the open air. His voice was raw and ragged. "This is not Erik, and you know it!" When he got no answer, Charles wheeling himself around and staring at the ceiling as though he could pinpoint the location of whoever was pulling the strings. "Jason, I can help you! I want to help you, to show you there's more than this! You don't have to listen to your father, Jason!" A sob caught in Charles' throat. 

Erik covered his mouth with his hand, devastated. "No, Charles! It's me, it's really me!" Carefully, as though he was approaching a wounded, snarling animal, Erik rose to his feet and made his way carefully towards Charles. "Please." His hands he left at his sides, unwilling to accidentally threaten Charles into doing something foolish. 

Charles closed his eyes, a tear trailing down the old, careworn cheek. "I know you think that, my friend." 

Frustration, coupled with disappointment and fear, made Erik stalk forward. "I _am_ Erik Lensherr! I don't just think it! I am me!" 

Charles turned his face away. "Jason!" he shouted. "Dammit, Stryker, stop this now! What do you _want_?" his voice cracked and broke and left bleeding furrows in Erik's skin. "Don't...don't _do_ this to me, I beg of you." The misery in the words stopped Erik cold. Proud, stubborn Charles would never plead, never bend to a man who had to all appearances trapped Charles in a nightmare. "Stop, please," Charles whispered, bowing his head. 

That made something in Erik's own chest break wide open. Without conscious thought, Erik grabbed a hold of the metal of the imitation Cerebro around him, and used it to trap Charles' plastic wheels in place. Erik saw all too clearly the flare of absolute terror that appeared in Charles' eyes at the movement and swallowed heavily. "I'm not going to hurt you, Charles." 

Charles, in turn, licked his dry lips. "I wish I could believe that, Erik," he responded, sounding calm, but his hands were white knuckled. Despite that, when Erik smoothed a hand over his smooth brow, Charles leaned into Erik's palm. Eyes closed, Charles prayed, "Stryker, stop this. I'll do anything." 

Erik's heart broke. 

"Charles, look at me." The telepath obeyed Erik's command, lifting his brilliant blue eyes to meet Erik's own. "How can I convince you what I'm saying is true?" 

"I—I don't—" 

Erik regarded him with sad amusement. "Let yourself believe," he breathed against Charles' temple, pressing in close. This man even smelled like Charles, soap and citrusy cologne and wool. "Aren't you the one who's always saying that we should trust those around us? Trust me, Charles, like you once did. There's something better waiting for you. Just trust me, and wake up." 

"You're telling me everything I've wanted to hear from your lips for forty years," Charles whispered back against Erik's skin, intimate and familiar. "We have been enemies since you left that day on the beach, and sometimes it feels like I have nothing left in me but regrets over how things have turned out. I hope every day that you will come to see the error of your ways and we can find the true balance—" 

"Between rage and serenity," Erik finished for him, or perhaps with him. He'd missed this, Charles' steady English tone, equal parts arrogant and kind and a balm against Erik's soul. 

"But I fear it's not to be," Charles continued over him, and there was a hard, final note in his voice now. He gently but firmly pushed Erik away. "There are people who rely on me, Erik. I cannot join you." 

"No." 

It took a moment for Erik to realize it was he who had spoken, he who had rejected the notion that Charles would refuse to trust Erik. After everything, after facing that which seemed to be hopeless time and again, Erik wasn't about to give in now. "No," he repeated more strongly. "I don't believe that. I'm not going to leave you here, in this nightmare where we're enemies!" His passion took Charles aback, and the elderly gentleman who both was Charles and wasn't, who had been worn thin as paper by a hundred thousand different nightmares. 

"Please, Charles," Erik breathed one more time, and kissed him. 

It was a pair of chapped, warm lips against his own for an eternal heartbeat. 

"Oh," Charles gasped, and it was a joy absolute. 

~*~ 

Erik blinked, and he was back in that shadowy darkness he'd started in. Emma Frost, diamond curves picking up light even here, stood with her arms crossed. "It's about time, sugar," she drawled. Her attempt at unconcern was foiled by the stark relief on her features. 

"I'm sorry about all this," Charles said in response, and he was Erik's Charles once more, standing tall in a dowdy cardigan and trousers, hands shoved into his pockets. Even the timbre of his voice was the familiar one that haunted Erik's dreams, light and friendly, instead of the deeper and sterner voice of the almost-Charles, who had shared his eyes and features but was almost wholly unrecognizable in every other way that mattered. "Thank you for bringing Erik to me, Miss Frost," he murmured politely, "but I think that you both ought to leave. It's about time my mind became my own again." 

Emma smiled, and it was only a little mocking. "I was just thinking the same thing. It would be rude to overstay our welcome." She beckoned, but Erik didn't budge. 

"Charles," he began, fear seizing him. What if this was just another trick and Charles would remain in the shadows forever more? What if this was just another nightmare, or a dream of a dream, and when Erik woke up it would just be another cold night spend vigilant over Charles' bedside. 

Charles—his Charles, who moved the way Erik remembered and whose smile was as clear and lively as ever—came over to him. "Come now," the telepath chided, eyes glittering with his typical good humor. "What was it you told me in that world of my mind's own making? To trust you? It seems like the least you can do is return the favor." 

Erik wanted to protest, but Charles' eyes were serious. "Trust me," Charles repeated. 

Shakily, feeling hot all over, Erik nodded. "Close your eyes," Charles instructed. 

_Now open them_. 

Charles smiled sleepily up at him from the bed, color already returning to his cheeks. Erik's entire world faded except for that soft expression on Charles' face. Mute, Erik clung to his friend's hand, pressing it wordlessly to his forehead in benediction, thanking the Lord that Charles had been returned to him. Charles' hand, though weak, squeezed Erik's fingers gently. Erik shut his eyes, attempting to keep the tears at bay and largely failing. 

_Erik_. Charles' mental voice was exhausted but didn't fail to give him the usual sensation of warmth flooding his veins. _You look weary_. 

Erik choked at that, hysterical laughter bubbling in his chest. _It's been a long few months_ , _Charles_. 

Charles made a tuneless humming noise. _Rest, Erik. You needn't keep your vigil any longer. You brought me back. Don't be afraid—I will be here when you awaken. I promise._

Erik wanted very much to be afraid that this was all just a waking dream, but not even the most glorious of his daydreams could match the patient, if drained, voice in his mind. Charles' eyes were barely more than slits, glimmered blue in the bright room. All the tension and anxiety and pain of the long weeks disappeared all at once, leaving Erik blinking slowly and swaying in place. 

"It seems I must do everything," a strident, feminine voice said, but Erik was too exhausted to figure out who was speaking. A pillow was shoved beneath Erik's head, and he collapsed forward, Charles' hand still held tight in his own. Charles managed a brief grin for Erik, and then Erik's eyes slipped close despite himself. The voice muttered a few more times, bustling around the room, but as the end effect seemed to be primarily that darkness overtook the room and blankets were tucked in around Erik and Charles alike, Erik didn't mind. 

_Sleep, Erik_. Charles' voice was drowsy as well, and a pleasant sort of tiredness sank deep into Erik's bones. 

They slept, and did not dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've stuck with me for so long...well, congratulations. I hope that you enjoyed reading it. If you're feeling unsatisfied with the ending, please rest assured that this is not the end of Erik and Charles' story. In fact, there are another two fics coming that will complete the Red King trilogy (I'm working on outlining the sequel, The Wanderings of the Red King now). I hope you enjoy reading them, too.
> 
> Thank you!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, phoenix_laugh for putting up with the late night demands, controlling my paranoia, and perhaps most importantly, making this fic make sense. Basically, you rule all the things. Thanks also to hollow_echos who created this gorgeous banner for my fic. You are amazing!
> 
>   
> 


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